Arsenic and Red Lace
by 221b Baker Street
Summary: Stomach flu epidemic at the CBI and murder at a Nursing Home in Rocklin, CA. Jane is getting sick and Lisbon is getting worried - could there by more than milk and sugar in the tea? A tribute to a classic play, dedicated to Alamo Girl!
1. Chapter 1

_**Arsenic and Red Lace**_

_Chapter 1_

"This hand. No, no, that hand…"

Blue eyes gleamed.

"Are you certain?"

Wayne Rigsby clenched his teeth, but nodded firmly. "Yes, that hand."

Eloquent fingers lifted the cup. Alas, no peanut underneath.

"_Man!_ How do you do that?"

"Magic." Patrick Jane smiled. "Five bucks please."

Grumbling, Rigsby rifled through his pockets, pulled out his wallet, handed over a fiver, which promptly disappeared into Jane's own pocket. Like magic.

"I saw it," said Kimball Cho.

Jane turned to the other man sitting at the next desk. "Oh. Did you now?"

"Yep. Typical carnie routine. It's a pattern, like a Rubic's cube."

"Hm." The consultant cocked his head and smiled. "Want to put some money on that?"

Sitting a little ways off, Grace Van Pelt smirked, pretending not to be watching, but as always, fascinated.

"Nope. I just know."

Jane gathered his 'equipment' and moved them now to Cho's desk. With a showman's flourish, he held up the peanut, showed it off to all eyes, placed it ever so carefully underneath one of the three identical white coffee mugs he had pilfered from the kitchenette across the hall. Slowly at first, he began to move the mugs, around and around and around. He removed his hands.

"Where is it?"

"That one," said Cho.

Jane lifted the cup. The peanut rocked a little, but it was most definitely there.

"Two out of three," said Jane. Van Pelt couldn't help but notice that there was something in his eyes, an intensity, a deep almost visceral pleasure. It was the same kind of look that her dad would get when he saw a fish circling the bait.

"Sure, but no money."

"No money. Sure."

Under went the peanut, around and around and around and around went the cups, a little faster this time. Cho was blinking when they finally stopped.

"And now?"

Cho sighed, ground his teeth, studied the cups. "That one."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

The cup was removed, and _voila,_ the peanut was most definitely there.

Jane grinned. "Impressive. One more time."

"You said two out of three."

"I lied. Besides, you are quite good at this. Uncanny, actually."

Rigsby snorted, throwing back a mouthful of peanuts. They were _his _peanuts, after all. As soon as this was done, that little fella was lunch.

The peanut disappeared under the cup, and the dancing fingers moved, then stopped. "I know," said Jane. "Rigsby, throw me another peanut."

"Hm? What? Why?"

"I promise, you'll get it back."

"Why?"

"Just chuck me a peanut, Charlie Brown."

It was Van Pelt's turn to snort.

Rigsby tossed it over, and Jane almost caught it, but it bounced off his palm and onto the desk and began to roll towards Cho's lap. Cho scrambled to catch it, as did Jane, and they almost fell off the desk together, but the consultant managed to right himself before they fell.

"Got it! Got it! Ah, I got it… " He patted Cho on the arm. "Sorry about that. Okay, here's the game. Two peanuts, three cups. All you have to do it pick one peanut. Just one. If you do, I'll give _you_ five bucks."

And he smiled like the sun.

Naturally, Cho was suspicious. "That sounds too easy…"

"Well, of course it is. Unless you doubt your uncanny ability to find a peanut."

There was silence in the bullpen as Cho weighed out his options.

"Two peanuts, three cups."

"Yes. Two peanuts, three cups. Literally two out of three."

"Okay. Five bucks. You're on."

"Excellent."

Two peanuts, three cups, and ten magical fingers, around and around and around and around and around they all went. All three agents were getting dizzy.

Jane pulled his hands away.

"You have a 66.6 repeating percent chance of winning, my friend."

"Yeah," harrumphed Rigsby. "You don't even have to try."

"Still," said Cho, and steepled his fingers to study the mugs. He studied, he furrowed his brow, he studied some more. Finally, he reached for one, tapped it, sat back.

"Are you certain?"

"Why do you always say that?"

"Well, I like to give my victims a chance to back out."

Cho grunted. "Yes, I'm certain."

Jane reached over, lifted the cup.

No peanut.

"What? How did you do that?"

"Magic."

Cho reached over, lifted the other two cups. A perfect peanut lay, undisturbed, under each. He shook his head.

"Five bucks, please." Jane held out his hand.

Cho reached back for his wallet and frowned. He patted his back pocket. He stood up, patted his other back pocket, and front pockets, and turned to look at Jane, his dark eyes growing wide.

"Never mind," said Jane. "I'll get it."

And with a dramatic flourish, he produced a slim black wallet from his own pocket, opened it up, blew some dust out of the folds.

"Hey, that's mine. How did you get that?"

Jane grinned, pulled a fiver out before tossing the wallet back. "C'_mon. _You think anyone can get rich off the shell game? Theft is _so _much more lucrative."

"Tossing the peanut, right? You missed it on purpose." Rigsby reached over and whacked the consultant on the arm. "Nice one, man."

Jane grinned again. "Yeah. And I only took your credit card…"

"_Wha?"_

Out of another pocket came a Visa, held high in those magical fingers. He waggled his brows before handing it over. "Aren't you glad I use my powers for good and not for evil?"

"Tell me about it," grumbled the big man, snatching the credit card and securing it in a back pocket. "And no more peanuts. I paid good money for those."

He reached toward the bag on the desk. It was gone.

"Oh yeah," Jane grinned as he tossed back the last handful of nuts, emptying the baggie in his mouth. "Much, much more lucrative."

"I hate you," grumbled Rigsby.

"Okay people, listen up!"

They all glanced up as Teresa Lisbon swung into the bullpen, dark hair bouncing across her shoulders. She paused at the desks, held up a bottle of hand sanitizer in one hand and a manila folder in the other. She seemed about to say something when she noticed the cups.

She glanced at Patrick Jane, who smiled, happily munching his peanuts. Her green eyes slid next to Rigsby, then to Cho. They dropped their heads and looked at the floor.

She sighed.

"You are all hopeless," she mumbled. "Okay, two things. One, it appears we have a bit of an epidemic going on in our little corner of the world."

"Epidemic," grumbled Rigsby. He sounded irritated.

"Stomach flu. Several agents are out with it already. Hightower has asked all of us to be diligent in keeping illness, and therefore absenteeism, to a minimum."

The agents, plus one consultant, stared at her.

Lisbon took a deep breath, held up the bottle. "She wants us to remember to use our hand sanitizers, and to wash our hands frequently to stop the spread of potentially infectious germs. Plus, it's just good hygiene."

She knew it was coming. She could see the mischief in his eyes, as Patrick Jane crumpled a bag of peanuts and tossed it over his shoulder. He proceeded to lick the salt off his fingers, one by one. He then wiped his hand on his trousers and smiled.

"Personally, I have very good hygiene," he said.

"You could have just put a thousand flu bugs in your mouth, right now."

"Oh I do hope so. I never get sick. It would be very interesting to see what it feels like."

"Not stomach flu," groaned Van Pelt. "It's not fun."

"Really? No? Hmm." Jane slipped his hands in his pockets, brows raised in thought.

Lisbon sighed. "Okay second thing, we got what appears to be a homicide in a State Nursing home in _Rocklin."_

"Nursing home?" Rigsby grumbled again. He was missing his peanuts.

"Seniors?" Grace Van Pelt gasped. "Someone killed a senior citizen?"

"That's what we have been called in to determine, Grace. I've sent a Forensics Unit on ahead. It appears someone may have been poisoned."

"Ooh," grinned Jane. "Poison."

Lisbon held up a finger. "There may be an environmental cause and if so, then the entire facility has to get locked down. Naturally, the state wants to avoid that if possible."

"So they're calling it a homicide?" Rigsby now, folding his arms and leaning on his desk. Yes, he was irritated. He was desperately missing his peanuts. "Why? So they can avoid the bad press?"

Van Pelt shook her head. "That's terrible."

"As I said, Grace, that is what we've been called in to determine. If it _is_ environmental, we call in the OEHHA. If it's a homicide, we can keep it or turf it to the _Rocklin _PD. It may just be a routine death in a senior's home, but there are some unusual preliminary findings. The D.A. has asked us to check it out."

"I'm hoping for poison," grinned Jane as he rocked back on his heels. "I do so love a good poison."

Lisbon rolled her eyes. "The place is called…" she glanced down at the papers in her hand. _"Cedar Ridge Retirement Home."_

"Why do they always sound like that?" grumbled Rigsby. He was going into peanut withdrawal. "_Happy Valley. Sunny Days. Shady Pines."_

Cho grunted. "What are they gonna call them? _Slow Agonizing Death Retirement Home?"_

Rigsby snorted.

"Stop it," moaned Van Pelt. "That's not funny."

"_Boring Way to Go Retirement Villa?"_

"Stop it!"

"Alright, that's enough," said Lisbon, but in point of fact, she was smiling.

"_Terminal Sunrise Nursing Suites?"_

Van Pelt stomped the ground with her foot. "You are both so mean!"

Lisbon shook her head. "That's enough. We'll take two cars. Rigsby, you, Cho and Van Pelt take the SUV—"

"I don't want to go with them," announced Grace Van Pelt, and now she too folded her arms across her chest.

"They promise to be good. Don't you, boys?"

Both Cho and Rigsby exchanged glances, but said nothing. Lisbon glared at them.

"I'm not going with them," Van Pelt repeated.

Jane stepped forward. "Grace can come with me."

"Uhn-No," said Lisbon.

"Oh yes!" said Grace. "In your car? It's so sweet!"

Jane grinned at his boss. "Of course in my car. It's a lovely day for a drive. We can bring a picnic lunch."

Lisbon ground her teeth. "It's only an hour to _Rocklin."_

"We'll take the scenic route."

Grace clapped her hands. "I love your car. I'll grab my purse." And she whirled, red hair swinging, and bounced over to her desk.

Lisbon stepped forward, poked the consultant in the waist-coated chest. "No scenic route, got it? You follow us like a hound dog on a scent."

"Like a hound dog on a scent," Jane grinned and tapped the side of his nose.

Lisbon rolled her eyes once more and suddenly, Van Pelt was back, all smiles and sunshine, purse slung over one shoulder.

"Okay, are we all ready? Let's head out…" Now it was Lisbon's turn to whirl as she moved toward the elevators. Grace followed, but Jane paused to lean in to the two men, waggled his fingers in the air.

"Personally, I liked _Terminal Sunrise."_

"I liked my peanuts…"

And they all headed out for _Cedar Ridge Retirement Home_ in _Rocklin, CA._

_"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""_

_Cedar Ridge Retirement Home_ was a lovely place with sweeping, manicured grounds on the outskirts of _Rocklin, _CA. It was a low ranch style facility, red brick and colonial white embellishments, with many wings heading out in a variety of directions. A black iron gate swung open as they drove up, first the dark SUV followed by the silver Citroen, and the fence seemed to go on and on to encircle the entire property. Impressive, as wrought iron was not an inexpensive way to go.

Lisbon, Cho and Rigsby piled out of the SUV, Rigsby happily munching on his second bag of peanuts. He had insisted they stop at a corner store before the drive, and made a point to savor each and every one of the salty legumes _outside_ of the company of Patrick Jane. He had saved only one for last.

Jane and Van Pelt got out of the Citroen, and truth be told, it seemed a problem for the young woman. She was tall, long of leg and frame, and the French car was quite compact. Still, she was laughing as she unfolded herself from the cramped quarters and Rigsby found it hard to keep his eyes off her.

The pair ambled up to the others.

"I'll tell her you said so," laughed Grace. "Nanna would appreciate that."

Jane smiled at the group. "Grace's Nanna is in a retirement home in Iowa. Lovely lady. Apparently, quite the card shark, too. I was just giving Grace a few poker tips for her. Ah. More peanuts."

Rigsby held it up proudly. "The last one."

"Enjoy it, my friend _– Whoa._ Babe alert." And quickly, he glanced to the left.

Lisbon sighed. She could see it all coming.

For naturally, as the big man turned to look, the consultant's hand flashed and the peanut was sent sailing into the air and into the eager fingers of Patrick Jane...

"Hey! No way!"

…where it was held proudly for only a moment before being popped into a waiting mouth.

Rigsby growled. "I was saving that."

Jane grinned, munching happily. "Oh, it was a good one, to be sure."

"We're at a seniors' home," Lisbon growled. "Can we please stop acting like 10 year olds?"

"I'm so excited," said Jane.

"Jane ate my peanuts," grumbled Rigsby.

"_The Big Long Goodbye Seniors Home,"_ said Cho.

"We had a picnic," said Grace.

Teresa Lisbon wanted to scream.

Instead, she turned on her heel and marched up the steps and into _Cedar Ridge Retirement Home _in _Rocklin,_ CA.

_End of Chapter 1_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Arsenic and Red Lace**_

_Chapter 2_

The lobby of _Cedar Ridge Retirement Home_ was lovely. Impressive, actually, with modern furniture mingling with colonial, and a palette of yellows, greens and golds to create a warm, homey feel. Trim was white, as was the traditional wainscoting that traveled the halls, and all the doors were shiny black. Very homey indeed.

The Director of _Cedar Ridge Retirement Home_ was waiting for them.

"Danielle DeVuono," said the woman, holding out her hand to Teresa Lisbon. "You must be the people from the CBI. I'm so glad you could come so quickly."

Danielle DeVuono was a young woman, slim, brunette, pretty, with horn-rimmed glasses that were now so trendy. In fact, she suited this place to a tee, a modern take on an archaic institution. She looked professional, competent, pulled-together.

Lisbon took her hand. "I'm Teresa Lisbon—"

"You're scared," said a voice from behind.

Both women turned to see Patrick Jane, standing with his hands in his pockets, taking in the sights. He smiled at them.

"Excuse me?" exclaimed DeVuono. "Who - who are you?"

"This is our consultant, Patrick Jane." Lisbon shot him a warning with her green eyes.

Jane stepped forward, pulled one hand out of his pocket to poke the air in her direction. "Tell me, Danielle, why are you so scared?"

"Jaaaane…" growled Lisbon.

Jane rocked back on his heels. "She's scared, Lisbon. This is a big scary deal. She could be shut down, lose her license, lose her job. I understand. I do."

"I'm not scared," DeVuono protested.

"Are so. You're protesting. Denying the obvious. It's okay to be scared. It's a perfectly rational emotional response to an emotional situation."

The woman glanced at Lisbon. It was clear the abrupt introduction had caught her off guard. "I, I am not—"

"Oh sure you are," continued Jane. "Fear response is an easy make. What is curious is why? Why are you scared, Danielle? Is this not the first suspicious death at _Cedar Ridge Retirement Home? _Or have there been others?"

Now, Lisbon turned to look at the director. While she never endorsed or encouraged Jane's boldness, it frequently made short work out of a potentially long case. Whether good or bad, it always got results.

For almost immediately, the woman's demeanor shifted, and she clasped her hands together. "Ah, perhaps we can discuss this in my office…"

"Oooh, avoidance," grinned Jane. "Coverup. See? This is so exciting."

Cho and Rigsby exchanged glances. Van Pelt pouted.

Teresa Lisbon sighed and turned to her team. "You three, go to records. Check out the files on all the deaths in the last six months…"

DeVuono stepped forward. "Ah, those files are confidential medical records, I'm afraid. No one is allowed to see them. Not without a warrant."

"Feeling threatened, off balance. Aggressive compensation," said Jane. His eyes were dancing.

Lisbon ignored him. "Ms. DeVuono, you invited us here. If you're gonna make us jump through hoops, I'll just call the AG and let him know you're being uncooperative. The OEHHA will be on you like a dirty shirt."

"Like a hound dog on a scent," said Jane.

The young woman's resolve held for only a moment, before she looked down. "Fine. Fine. Just look for what you need. But please, can we go to my office?"

"Artificial submission," said Jane.

"What? No! I—"

"Do you have any peanuts?"

She looked ready to cry. "I - I don't _understand!"_

"_There_ we go," grinned Jane.

"The office," growled Lisbon and together two pairs of three headed in very different directions, visions of peanuts dancing in their heads.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

"Death is a very normal part of life in an EOL facility," said Danielle DeVuono as she folded her hands across her desk. "We have two very distinct wings, one for more independent living, and the nursing side, where care is available 24-7. We can lose 2 to 3 residents a month from the Nursing Care side."

"What is EOL?" asked Lisbon.

"End of Life."

Lisbon nodded, thankful that for once, Jane was silent.

"But Mr. Holloway was from the Independent Living wing. He seemed perfectly healthy. So when he passed last Tuesday, the family was suspicious and requested an autopsy."

Lisbon frowned. "Is that normal? I mean, most people don't just ask for autopsies."

She made a face. "It's not really a normal family. There was money involved. A fair amount of money."

"So why was he here?" Jane, for the first time since entering the office. He had seemed content to poke around in her books.

"I don't understand the question."

"Here. I mean, hey, this is a nice place, but it is a _state_ nursing home. If there was money, why not someplace more private, more 'upscale'?"

"I…don't really know."

He raised his brows. "It's a good question, yeh?"

"Yes. I suppose."

Lisbon let her eyes linger a moment as the consultant went back to the books. "When Mr. Holloway… passed, did you file an incident report?"

"Oh yes, of course. We do so for all our losses. Even the ones we are expecting."

"Expecting?"

She took a deep breath. "As I said earlier, we are an EOL care facility. The Nursing Care Wing has as many as 10 residents with terminal conditions. End of Life is expected and made as peaceful as possible."

"But Mr. Holloway didn't have any of those conditions."

"Oh no. Not at all. He was a lovely man, quiet, polite, dignified. Charming actually."

"Sad?" asked Jane, turning from the books again. "Was he sad?"

"Oh. Um, I don't know. I don't think so…"

Jane looked at Lisbon. "I bet he was sad."

She cocked her head. "Why do you think that?"

He shrugged then swung around to look at the director. "That's a nice fence."

Her mouth hung open a moment. Clearly, she had no idea what to make of Patrick Jane. "Thank you…" she began.

"It's a biggie, to be sure."

"Yyess…"

"Is it to keep people in or out?"

"Oh, um, it's simply a barrier. Some of our residents have Alzheimer's. We don't want them wandering off the property."

"But it's not to keep people out?"

"No. Of course not. But seniors _are_ a vulnerable demographic. We will do what we need to do to protect those under our care."

And Jane smiled at her. "Can I go for a walk?"

"Um…"

Lisbon shook her head. "Jane, we're not finished here."

"That's okay. I just want to look at that fence. Please, Lisbon? Pleeeease."

He sounded like a 10 yr old. Which was likely his aim, since she had asked him not too. She sighed. "Yes, yes Jane, go. Don't touch anything and don't get lost."

"I won't. Promise." And he was gone in a heartbeat, leaving a very confused director and one beleaguered senior agent. DeVuono sat forward.

"What does he does he do for your team, exactly?"

Lisbon made a face. "You don't want to know…"

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""

"This is a nice place," said Grace Van Pelt as she peered over her pile of manila folders. "Don't you think this is a nice place?"

"Oh, um, yeah," mumbled Rigsby. "Very nice."

"Why is it called _Cedar Ridge?"_ said Cho and he stared at her with his unreadable stare. "It's not on a ridge and there are no cedars."

"Shut up," she growled.

He grinned and bent back to his files.

"Most of these are perfectly normal," said Rigsby, holding up file after file. "Cancer, cancer, heart attack, cancer." He shrugged. "Normal 'death' stuff."

"But Eugene Holloway didn't have cancer." Van Pelt reached for the most recent file. "Last Tuesday he didn't come down for dinner, so they sent someone up to check and found him dead in his room."

Cho reached for a sheet out of that same file. "Trace elements of arsenic in the blood. Arsenic. That's old school."

Rigsby sighed. "Yeah, but they used arsenic in a lot of things a few years ago, like pesticides and treated lumber. Banned now I think."

Van Pelt nodded. "Have they checked the decking? Did we get that Forensics report yet?"

"Naw," said Cho. "The team is still on the grounds. It could be in anything. Rusted water pipes, old paint, even over the counter herbal supplements."

"It's a metal, right? Like lead, like mercury?" Rigsby now.

"Yeah. It builds up in your blood, so unless you're being intentionally poisoned, it accumulates over time and kills you."

They were silent for a minute. "So," said Van Pelt. "Is there any way of telling whether Mr. Holloway had been accumulating arsenic, or whether it was a one-time event?"

Cho shrugged. "The ME only mentions 'trace amounts."

"Hm," said Van Pelt.

"Hm," said Rigsby.

"_Long Slow Painful Demise…"_ said Cho.

Rigsby snorted. Grace scowled. They all went back to work.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

The Forensics Team was finishing up their testing in Eugene Holloway's apartment. It was a lovely room, if a little small, and the décor was uniform shades of beige. But it did seem in keeping with the man's unfolding character, quiet, polite, neat, orderly. Teresa Lisbon felt a pang of sadness and wondered if anyone mourned his passing.

The room smelled vaguely of garlic.

"We're in the process of cleaning it out," DeVuono was saying. "We have a waiting list, but we don't want to seem mercenary. We usually try to give it two weeks before we move someone else in. Just to, you know, pay our respects, clear out the memories…"

And now Lisbon looked at the woman, truly looked at her. She was young and professional, but obviously she cared about these people. She wondered if the rest of the staff felt the same.

"Do the residents cook their own meals?"

"If they wish, although we have a fully functioning cafeteria that serves wonderful, nutritious, gourmet meals. I eat there most lunch hours."

Lisbon smiled. She wondered if the woman ran the pitch tours herself.

"Did Mr. Holloway cook for himself?"

"Um, I don't really know. I can ask the staff, or several of his close friends…"

"Actually," said Lisbon. "I _would _like to speak to his friends, if that could be arranged?"

"Certainly. We have a common room, and a library. Perhaps the library would be a good place to talk. It's quieter."

"Sounds good."

And DeVuono promptly turned and disappeared out the white wood colonial door.

She let her eyes wander the furniture, the little sitting area, the small TV. The bedroom was visible from where she was standing, so she wandered in. The bed was stripped of all linens but there were still slippers underneath. One of the dressers was empty, the other not. There was a book and several bottles of vitamins on a bedside table.

She picked up the book. "_A Time to Die",_ by John Grisham. She had read it herself once. Grisham was a good writer.

The vitamin bottles looked expensive, so she read the labels. Organic, from herbs grown in Bakersfield, refined in Sacramento. _"The Sunshine Organic Supply Company - A Path to Wellness and Long Life",_ read the captions. She pulled out a clear plastic bag, slipped them inside and into her pockets.

A small apartment for a single life, gone in a heartbeat. One of hundreds, maybe thousands every day in the State of California.

And Lisbon stood several minutes more, allowing the sadness to subside.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

The common room was large, with tall paned windows that opened on to a garden of sorts. Perennial flowers were blooming, and the California sun was high in the sky, sending beams of light across the floor. There was a game of chess going in one corner, bridge in another, and a TV was broadcasting Oprah into the lives of a few. Patrick Jane was watching the chess.

Two gentlemen were sparring, not serious but not amateurs, and this was clearly not their first game. It was fascinating, Jane thought, how they parried, so very cautious in a game about boldness, strategy and risk, and he wondered if that was how most people lived their lives. Cautiously, with little regard to its brevity or depth. But then again, he mused, these fellows were in their eighties. Life had done alright by them.

He smiled. "May I?"

As one they glanced up. "Sure, kid. Knock yourself out," said one.

Jane moved the black bishop. "Check," he said.

"Damn."

"Hah, Harold! I finally got ya!"

"You didn't get me, Cranton, the kid did!"

Jane smiled and pulled up a chair.

"You movin' in, son? If ya are, I'd like you to be on my team!"

"No way, Harold. He's mine! Ain't ya, son? You can bunk with me!"

"Ah, gentlemen," grinned Jane, enjoying the attention. "There's plenty of me to go around."

"You play Yahtzee?"

"Oh sure. Yahtzee, Majong, Bridge, Poker—"

"Poker!"

"Sure."

"Harold, where's the cards?"

"We can't play poker, Cranton. It's against the rules."

"Only if we bet."

"Still."

Jane grinned again. "Did Eugene Holloway play chess?"

There was silence for a moment as the gentlemen eyed him up.

"You from the Department of Health?"

"Absolutely not. Just asking."

"Good," said the man called Harold. "Gene didn't play much, but I think he knew how."

"Oh, how so?"

"Well, he'd watch, you know. Watch and comment."

The man named Cranton nodded. "Comment like he knew what was going on, like he could win if he wanted to."

Jane cocked his head, still smiling. "But he didn't want to?"

"Didn't want to do much of anything. He was a quiet one, Gene was."

"Shame he's gone. But that's life in a place like this."

"Yep," said Harold. "Here one minute, gone the next."

And all three sat quietly for a moment.

"So," Jane sighed. "If I _were_ to move in here, what would we do around here for fun?"

"You mean, other than chess, Yahtzee, Majong and Poker?"

"Yeah," said Jane. "Other than those."

"Well, Thursdays is TV night. CBS has crackerjack shows, all them smart geeks and mysteries and murder. We all watch."

"Fox ain't bad neither…"

"Bah, Fox is for weirdies like you, Cranton. Not normal folk."

"Sap."

"What else? Oh, yeah, Fridays is movie night. Saturdays is variety night, Sundays is sing-along…"

"What about during the day?"

Harold and Cranton looked at each other.

"Well," began Harold. "There's usually a field trip. Or shopping."

"Yeah, shopping," echoed Cranton. "There's _Rosedale Center,_ but that's in _Rosedale."_

"And _Rocklin Village."_

"Yeah, _Rocklin Village."_

"And then there's the crafts room."

"Yeah, crafts. I made a string boat once."

"Ooh," said Jane.

"Tai Chi at one o'clock, most days, when it's not raining."

"Which is most days."

"Yeah. Most days."

"Anything else, anything really interesting?"

The gentlemen exchanged glances.

Jane grinned some more.

"Well, there's the widows' house…"

Jane sat forward. "The widows?"

The gentlemen smiled shyly.

"Tell me about the widows…" asked Jane, and he sat back in his chair under the tall paned windows, in a home not on a ridge and with not a single cedar in sight.

_End of Chapter 2_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Arsenic and Red Lace**_

_Chapter 3_

Kimball Cho found his boss in the library, in a set of club chairs by a fireplace. She was speaking to an elderly woman – a friend of Holloway's, he assumed. Van Pelt had been right, although he would never admit it. Murder, in a place like this. It was just wrong.

"Boss," he said and she looked up at him.

"Will you excuse me?" She glanced at the woman sitting before her.

"Of course, dear."

Lisbon rose to her feet and the agents moved a few paces away.

"We found three deaths in the last six months that might have question marks beside them. Grace is going over the files now. But people die here all the time. No one ever thinks to check. There could be dozens and we'd never know."

Lisbon nodded. She had suspected as much.

"And Forensics is done their initial sweep. They want to know if there's anything else."

She reached into the pockets of her dark suit jacket, pulled out the bag of vitamin bottles.

"Have them run an analysis on the contents. The room smelled of garlic. It could be just his cooking preferences, but it also could be the arsenic." She turned back to the woman, who was smiling politely. Likely straining to hear any and all scraps of conversation. Human nature was a funny thing.

"Mrs. Angus, did Mr. Holloway have a problem with his breath?"

"I beg your pardon, dear?"

"Did his breath smell like garlic?"

"Well… he did like his Crazy Bread. But he was such a nice man."

Lisbon nodded, turned back to Cho. "We'll also need to talk to the family. Apparently, there was money."

"Arsenic in the Crazy Bread."

She smirked. "Just make the call. You and I will take the SUV. Van Pelt and Rigsby can finish interviewing Holloway's friends. I want to know who he hung out with, what he did, if he had enemies. They can catch a ride back with Jane when we're done."

"Rigsby? In Jane's little car?"

"Fold him in half."

It was Cho's turn to smirk. "Where is Jane anyway?"

"He went for a walk."

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

It was a beautiful day. The sun was high in the sky, there were birds singing and flitting over the treetops, which threw long cool shadows across the grass. They passed a game of Bocce Ball in progress, passed the Horseshoe pitch and the Badminton net. They passed several residents drinking lemonade under a wooden pergola and a few tending the perennial garden on the side. You couldn't hear cars, you couldn't hear sirens or horns or music or any other sound that might tell you that you were in the city. What you could hear was laughter, conversation and birds.

Patrick Jane was enjoying himself.

He had two new friends, Harold Woszny and Cranton Herbert, card sharks who had taken to him like lint on a sweater. Like a hound dog on a scent. They had talked and talked and talked while Jane listened. They talked about history, about the Korean War, about Nixon, about the government. They had talked about their wives, now dead, their kids, now busy, their former jobs, now memories. They had talked about TV shows, news radio, the Internet. Asked him if he was on Facebook, and if he knew anything about Twitter.

They were following the fence.

It was impressive indeed, this large, heavy black iron fence. A seventeen yr old could scale it easily, so DeVuono's claim that it 'kept the demographic safe' was suspect. It would, most likely, keep a seventy yr old in. Which, Jane suspected, was the real reason. Alzheimer's was the bane of everything.

Finally, after a good half hour stroll along the perimeter of the property, they came upon a gate. Like the fence, it was large and fashioned out of black wrought iron, but the casings were oiled and it looked rather well used. In fact, the black paint had chipped off where it was gripped, exposing the raw metal underneath. The gate itself opened onto a wooded path, with tall redwoods reaching up to the sky, and as they passed through, Jane felt a little like Hansel, wandering innocently towards some gingerbread house. He glanced at his companions. Interesting twist on the story, with Gretel being two eighty yr old gents.

Cranton was talking about Sarah Palin as they walked, and Jane tuned him out, breathing in deep the smells of the forest. It was a rare thing for him, being in a forest. Happened only when a case took him there. He had never been one for camping or hiking, preferring the sights, sounds and smells of the ocean to a woodland retreat. Water meant freedom, and he had always needed his freedom. The forest gave him a different sense. Under a canopy of trees, walking on earth that had been around for a hundred years, he felt small, insignificant, enveloped. Just one tiny part of the vast macrocosm of life. He could probably get used to it.

He wondered briefly if his wife would have liked the forest. But truth be told, he had never given her the chance.

"Here we go," said Harold, as the forest opened onto a treed cul-de-sac. Small, older ranch-style bungalows lined the street, and they stepped onto a stone path that led round the back of one of them. There was yet another fence, but this one wooden and white, protecting a lush garden from rabbits and deer. Again, the smells called to him, for the garden was filled with herbs and medicinal plants. And tea leaves. It was overwhelming, for he did love his tea, and it set his mouth watering. He secretly hoped the widows were home.

Cranton was already at the door, ringing the bell with a gentlemanly flourish. Harold moved in beside, hands behind his back, and Jane watched, fascinated.

Harold turned around. "C'mon, son. C'mon."

Jane trotted up quickly and the door opened.

He smiled.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

"That place should be shut down!" snarled Evelyn Holloway.

"It's an environmental hazard! It's killing people," growled Ernest Holloway.

"Our lawyers are advising us to sue," hissed Everett Holloway.

Teresa Lisbon sighed. The Holloway family was giving her a headache.

She held up her hands. "We haven't determined whether it's an environmental cause or not. You shouldn't throw accusations like that around."

"Forgive me here, _Agent,"_ hissed Everett Holloway. "But _you _are employed by the State of California. You are hardly in any position to be investigating the goings on at a_ state_ nursing home."

Cho set his jaw and looked away. His boss ran on a short fuse. He loved it when she blew.

"It's _Senior _Agent to you, Mr. Holloway, and what you are doing is slander. I suggest you shut your traps and let us do our jobs, or the State of California will be suing _you."_

The Holloways snarled and growled and hissed, but quickly fell silent.

"Thank you," said Lisbon. "Now, the ME confirms that there was in fact trace elements of arsenic in his blood. Arsenic can be found in a variety of industrial products, along as being used as a stabilizing compound in some herbal supplements."

"Herbal supplements? Like vitamins?"

"Yes. Natural vitamins. Arsenic can be used in trace amounts with little or no consequences. But if someone had a compromised immune system, it could pose a problem."

The Holloways were silent for a moment.

"Then we should be suing the vitamin company," growled Ernest Hollowy.

"Yes, the vitamin company," hissed Everett Holloway.

Lisbon had had enough. "However, it is still routinely used in the commission of homicide."

"Homicide?" snarled Evelyn Holloway. "Homicide? Father?"

"Who would want to kill Father?" growled Ernest Holloway.

"In the past, it was called 'Inheritance Powder'," said Cho. He loved it when he could use useless but impressive facts that he learned from Jane.

"Why?" snarled Evelyn Holloway.

"Yes, why?" growled Everett Holloway.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe…_i__nheritance?"_ suggested Lisbon sweetly.

Once again, the Holloways fell silent.

"We're going to have a Forensics team go over this house. This is the family home, isn't it?"

The three Holloways nodded. The house was a grand one to be sure, but Lisbon had seen grander. In fact, it had surprised her. When Danielle DeVuono had said 'money', Lisbon had pictured 'Money' with a capital M. Her job took her from Hollywood to Palm Beach, from billionaires' estates to governors' mansions. While certainly well off, the Holloway estate did not have 'Money.'

It did not change things, however. Big or small M, money was frequently the motivator for all manner of crime.

"If Eugene Holloway was intentionally poisoned, we'll find out. Arsenic is a heavy metal that is very hard to hide."

Cho set his jaw once again. His boss was not a good liar. Not like Jane. Now there was one good liar.

"You can scrub the sinks with bleach, you can scour them with ammonia, but you will never be able to remove the traces of arsenic from your skin…"

She seemed to be enjoying herself as she made these three nasty adult children squirm, and he wondered if Jane was finally rubbing off on her.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""

"Would you like some more tea, dear?"

Patrick Jane smiled like the sun.

"Oh yes. Thank you so much." And he held up the porcelain cup and saucer, which was promptly filled with an aromatic golden brew. "This is quite delicious. You make it yourself, yeh?"

"Of course, dear," began Estelle Mountbatten. "We modify the blends depending on the time of year, the bounty of our meager harvest and…"

"And the disposition of our guests!" ended Theodora Getty.

"Tea drinking is a dying art, nowadays. Don't you agree?" Estelle set the china pot back down and sat on the floral couch next to Jane. "Most young people prefer their coffee."

"Yes," moaned Theodora. "That Starbucks. Such a savage business."

"Yes," moaned Estelle. "Savage."

"Now I don't mind a good strong cup of coffee, Estelle," said Harold. He was sitting on the floral chair across from the couch, but even as he was defending his coffee, he held a cup of tea in his hand. "Puts hair on your chest. Doesn't it, son?"

"Oh yes," said Jane. "Lots and lots of hair."

Sitting on the floral settee, Cranton laughed. He was also holding a cup. "But not so much that the ladies can't find their way home!"

"Oh my!" laughed Estelle.

"Oh Cranton," exclaimed Theodora. She laid a hand on Jane's sleeve. "You're making the boy blush. Tsk tsk. Men can be so crass."

Jane grinned and wondered if he was indeed blushing. He sipped his tea, just in case.

"So where ever did you meet these two rascals, Patrick?" It was Estelle. She was likely the older of the two sisters, a small slim woman with blonde wavy hair, piled in pin curls on the top of her head. She was also likely quite grey, but it was hard to tell. Generally with blondes, the highlights simply got lighter and lighter.

"At the home," said Harold before Jane had a chance. "He skunked me in chess."

"Meh. You were holding your own," said Jane, but now Estelle laid a hand on his other sleeve. He was surrounded by widows.

"What were you doing at the home, dear? Do you have family there?"

"No," said Jane. "Work. Just working."

"He's one of the feds looking into poor Eugene's death," said Cranton. Jane was surprised. He hadn't told them anything. Obviously, word got around at _Cedar Ridge Retirement Home._

"Oh, I'm not—"

"Alas, poor Eugene," sighed Estelle.

"Yes, poor Eugene. He was a lovely man."

"But sad."

"Yes, sad."

"Sad?" Jane sat up. "How so?"

"Oh, that is a sad story. Would you like a top up on your tea?"

Obediently, he held out his cup. "Why was Eugene sad?" he asked again.

The golden liquid was still steaming as it funneled into the porcelain. It smelled so very good. "He lost his wife, dear. Just a few years back. He never got over it."

Jane swallowed, grateful that there was now tea in his cup. He wondered if they had noticed the shake.

"Yes," continued Theodora. "He never got over it. Car accident, you see. Eugene was driving. Swerved to miss a cat, hit a minivan head on. Terrible business, those minivans."

"Terrible business."

"He wasn't even scratched, but her, alas, such a sad story."

"She died in his arms. Such a sad story."

"Sad."

They were all nodding now, Estelle, Theodora, Cranton and Harold. Jane stared into his cup.

"Tell us about your family, dear. We don't get out much and I do love to hear about people's families."

"Ah…"

"Do you have children, Patrick? You must have children, a young scamp like yourself. Do you have a daughter? Oh she would be lucky indeed to have hair like yours."

"Oh yes," said Theodora. "Like Estelle. Those blond curls. Like an angel."

"Oh Theodora, you are too kind," said Estelle. She patted her hair, modestly.

"Is your wife a 'fed' too, Patrick?"

"Does she work with you?"

"Aah…"

"You _are_ married, aren't you, Patrick. You are wearing a ring, after all."

"Hush, Estelle. Don't be nosy." And Theodora patted his hand. She was taller than her sister, her hair darker, her face longer, eyes sharp but kind. "She's passed too, hasn't she, dear? Like Eugene's wife."

"And not too long ago, either, I'll wager."

"Yes, Estelle. Not too long. He's still in mourning."

"She was young."

"Yes. Too young. But that's life."

"And death. Savage business, death."

"Yes. Savage."

His head was spinning._ Damn _but they were relentless. They were almost as good as he was.

"It's alright, dear. We've all lost our spouses."

"Yes, dear. We've all been there, haven't we, boys?"

The men nodded and Jane glanced down at his left hand, the band of gold still gracing his finger. It was true. These people _did_ know. They _did_ understand.

He looked up at the faces. They were smiling at him. He took a deep breath.

"Her name was Angela."

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

A second Forensics team had already begun work on the Holloway estate as Lisbon and Cho headed down the steps of the house. Naturally, Lisbon took the driver's seat. Cho didn't mind, although he knew he was the better driver. When he was boss of his own unit, he would be the one doing all the driving.

She was talking on her cell phone.

"Are you almost done? Good, find Jane and meet back at the office. Yeah, maybe grab some food on the way. We might be staying late. No, no peanuts. Rigsby…_Rigsby!_ I'm not going to take the cost of peanuts out of Jane's salary. No! Grow up, for heaven's sake!" And she folded the phone over his protests.

"You people never learn," she grumbled.

He stared at her. "Never learn what?"

She turned to look at him, and not the road. _**"Never. Gamble. With. Jane."**_

He grunted.

She continued, shaking her head, but at least, she was looking at the road. "It's a life skill, like not walking off a cliff or not poking a big dog with a stick. You think you're gonna beat him, there's that little rush of possibility, but deep down, you know you just can't, so don't even try."

"I could have beaten him."

"Really."

"If it hadn't been the two out of three. That threw me."

She shook her head again. "Hopeless."

And pulled the SUV onto the I-80 toward _Sacramento._

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

"Tomorrow, then?"

"You got it, Harold."

"I'm gonna clean your clock, son. Be warned."

"I am. I am very warned." And Patrick Jane threw a little wave to his two new friends as they disappeared into the doors of _Cedar Ridge Retirement Home_. He slipped his hands into his pockets and smiled.

"Hey Jane! There you are!" Rigsby and Van Pelt were coming from the opposite direction in the parking lot. "Where the hell were you?"

"You weren't answering your phone," said Van Pelt.

"Oh. I turned it off."

"I was getting worried."

He smiled at her. "Were you?"

Rigsby grumbled. "Boss wants us back. She says you have to pay for take-out and a bag of peanuts."

"Oh Rigsby," sighed Jane as the trio headed for the Citroen. "_'__There are more things in heaven and earth', _Rigsby, '_Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'"_

"What?"

"_Hamlet."_

"What does it mean?"

"No peanuts." Jane slid into the driver's seat.

"There's a Rigsby in _Hamlet?"_

Grace shook her head and climbed in the back. Hands on hips, Rigsby stared at the little car.

"No," said Jane. "There is no Rigsby in _Hamlet_. But there is a Rosencrantz…"

Rigsby stared at the little car.

"And a Reynaldo…"

Rigsby stared at the little car.

"And a Snoopy, I think. Maybe no Snoopy. Was Snoopy a Great Dane?"

He was forced to fold himself in half.

"But alas, no Rigsby…"

And with conversation equal parts Shakespeare and Charles Shultz, they pulled out of the parking lot toward _Sacramento._

_End of Chapter 3_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Arsenic and Red Lace**_

_Chapter 4_

"Thai peanut chicken, anyone?" called Patrick Jane as he, Grace Van Pelt and Wayne Rigsby strolled into the CBI bullpen carrying several brown bags. The ginger and garlic set everyone's mouth watering at once.

Teresa Lisbon's eyes grew round, and she smiled. "Hey," she said. "You didn't have to do that."

"Meh. Poor Rigsby was so missing his peanuts. I felt bad."

"You _do _have a conscience."

"Vestigial. Like an appendix."

They grabbed their chairs and gathered round Rigsby's desk, and began to eagerly unpack the Thai goodness that was peanut chicken satay with garlic noodles.

Jane, however, went straight to the couch.

"Okay," started Lisbon as she popped open her box of noodles. "Forensics should have some preliminary findings tomorrow. They've done a sweep of both _Cedar Ridge_ and the Holloway home. If there's arsenic to be found, they'll find it."

"What about the vitamins?" asked Cho with his mouth full. He was busy slurping up the satays. "Should we check out the processing facility? It's here in _Sacramento."_

Lisbon nodded. "In the morning. You and Rigsby make a surprise inspection. Hightower is getting us a warrant as we speak. I suspect they'll be within their limits, but still, you never know. We might get lucky."

Van Pelt was at her desk, checking the computer with one hand, holding a box of ginger almond broccoli in the other. "The OEHHA is giving us 48 hours to determine whether or not it's environmental. Otherwise they're sending their own inspector."

And Rigsby said nothing. He was in another world, a very happy one with many peanuts in many, many varieties.

"Jane?" called Lisbon. "Thoughts?"

"Nope," called the couch. "None."

She furrowed her brow, swiveled in her chair. "No thoughts? You?"

"Well, I always have thoughts, Lisbon. Simply none pertaining to the case at the moment."

"Oh. Really? Nothing?"

"Well…It's a very nice fence."

She glanced at her team members. They were too busy chowing down to take note. She swiveled back in her chair. "This is really good chicken."

"Oh good. I'm glad."

"Aren't you hungry?"

After a heartbeat of hesitation, he rolled up into a sitting position. He frowned. "Actually, I don't feel well."

Suddenly, there was silence in the bullpen.

Lisbon lowered her fork. "You don't feel well?"

He made a face, rubbed his vested belly. "No, I don't."

"Too many contraband peanuts," snorted Rigsby.

"Aw man, Jane…" groaned Lisbon. "If you're getting sick…"

He cocked his head, puffed out a deep breath. "Do you think so? Is that what it feels like?"

She set her box of noodles down, moved over to the couch. Placed a hand on his forehead.

"Well, you're not hot…" He was looking up at her like a puppy. It broke her heart. "I can make you some tea, if you'd like…"

_"Don't do it…"_ sang Rigsby under his breath.

"Yes, thank you. Make sure the water is—"

"Well and truly boiling, I know."

"And the milk—"

"Yes, I'll put the milk in first. I know."

She left the office for the kitchenette.

Cho narrowed his eyes. "So, you've never been sick?"

"Nope."

"Never? Not even when you were a kid?" asked Rigsby.

Jane rolled his eyes to the ceiling, thought for a moment. "Nope."

"Jane," Grace sat forward. "Did you ever get vaccinated when you were younger?"

"Vaccinated?" asked Jane. "For what?"

She grinned. "Never mind."

"Oh boy," muttered Rigsby as he sat back in his chair. "Did you touch this chicken?"

As one, they pushed their boxes away.

Jane was usually high maintenance, this they knew full well. But a sick Jane? It was almost as bad as a blind Jane. And so they sat, he rubbing his belly, they staring at the boxes of tantalizing Thai, no one certain exactly what they should do.

After a few minutes, Lisbon returned, carrying a light blue cup in a light blue saucer. Jane brightened, taking it.

With eager fingers, he put it to his lips. Made a face. Tried again.

"Tastes weird." He smacked his lips, handed it back. She scowled, but took it.

_"Told you so,"_ sang Rigsby under his breath.

"Is being sick always this bad?" Jane asked.

"No, Jane. Not at all," said Lisbon sweetly. "It gets worse."

"Worse?" His voice was an octave higher.

"Welcome to the world of mortals."

"Oh dear."

"Go home. I'll tell Hightower in the morning."

"No, no. I'll be fine. I just need to get some sleep." And he stretched back out on the couch, pulled the tattered blanket over his shoulders and was gone before she could say 'like a hound dog on a scent.'

She shook her head, eyed her box of noodles and peanut chicken. Her team was watching her like hawks.

She shrugged, grabbed the box and began to eat.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

In California, the workday starts at 5:00 am. Not officially, of course. 9 to 5 is still the commonly accepted norm of daily toil, but _unofficially_, in a state of 36 million people all trying to get ahead, it starts at 5:00. In a state of continuous sunshine, where the average daily temperature is 80 degrees by noon. In a state where competition is key, traffic is thick and life is fast. Here, the workday starts at 5:00.

So Teresa Lisbon thought herself lazy when she rolled into the bullpen at 7:00. The sun was already high in the sky and it poured through the CBI windows in shafts, giving the bricks a soft, warm, almost friendly glow. The office was quiet but steady, as agents routinely worked all hours, and sometimes brainpower didn't engage until well after midnight. There were the sounds of computers and cell phones and conversation, the smells of coffee and ink and fresh morning air. None of her team was in yet, and to her surprise, the couch was empty.

"Hmm," she hmphed, and headed into her office.

There was a flower on her desk.

It was a cutting from a wisteria vine, purple and pendulous and filling her office with rich, heady scent, thankfully masking the garlic from the night before. It would have been sweet if it hadn't been for the fact that it wasn't in a vase, or even simply laid across her desk, but rather it was sitting in an opened and emptied Tylenol bottle. She set her jaw and pulled open the bottom drawer of her desk, where she had stashed a brand new, unopened bottle. For all the headaches she got from working with Patrick Jane. The bottle was gone. Rather, it was sitting _on _her desk with a flower inside.

"Jaaaane…" she growled.

"You rang?"

He popped his blond head inside her office door, smiling like the sun.

"You took it all?" she growled again.

"I had a headache."

"You took it _all?"_

"It was a bad headache." He ambled in and pulled up a chair. "Do you like the flower?"

She grit her teeth. She hated to admit that she did. "Yes," she said, pursing her lips. "I do."

"You never get flowers."

"Does this qualify?"

"Doesn't it?"

"I'd say it was simply payment for one bottle of Tylenol."

He thought about that one for a moment, nodded. "I can see how you would think that."

She cocked her head. "You look good. Are you feeling better?"

He brightened. "Ah, yes. Much. Honestly, Lisbon, the American public spends millions, if not billions, of dollars every year in cold and flu medicines. And for what? Twelve hours of relatively minor discomfort. It boggles the mind, doesn't it? Completely boggles the mind."

"You're not done, Jane."

He stared at her.

She grinned. "Most people get sicker."

"Sicker? Sicker than that?"

"Yes. Vomiting, diarrhea, stomach cramps, chills, nausea, fever…" As she listed off the symptoms, his expression became more and more horrified. "Shall I continue?"

"I get the picture." He held up his hands. "Sicker."

"Thank you for the flower, anyway."

He smiled.

Her phone rang and she snatched it up, hoping it was Forensics calling to say their analyses were done. It was, they were, and she booted up her computer to access them.

She dropped her chin in one hand as she read. "Okay," she murmured. "We _do_ have arsenic in legal amounts in the supplements. Cho and Rigsby are headed to the refinery once they get in. I want Grace to see if there have been any other complaints of these 'supplements' having untoward effects in anyone else…"

Her eyes flicked over the report. "And arsenic _is_ in the pressure-treated decking and the pergola, but it's been sealed with paint apparently for years. Holloway would literally have to peel off the paint and ingest large amounts of wood for there to be any substantial amount built up in his system, at least enough to be registered by a local ME not looking for it."

"Tasty."

"They're running the tests on the fence again. Apparently, it was inconclusive."

"It's a nice fence."

She stared at him. "So, if it's not environmental, and it's not 'Holistic Medicine Gone Wild,' then…

"_Then…"_ His voice went up at the end, leading.

"Then…" Her eyes flicked to him now. "We might be looking at a homicide."

"Poison." His brows waggled.

"Yep. Poison." And she waggled her brows, imitating him.

"Sounds devious. I have to go back to the home."

"Well, we do at some point. My money's on the family."

"No, I mean, I have to go back to the home. I have a chess date. With Harold and Cranton."

She stared at him. "Harold and Cranton?"

"My new friends. Not very good chess players, but still. I had fun."

She tried to suppress her grin. "You had fun? In a home full of seventy and eighty year olds?"

"Oh yes. I could live there." He rose to his feet, smoothed the wrinkles in his waistcoat, frowned as if thinking. "When was the last death in the _Terminal Sunrise_ wing?"

"You mean the End of Life division?"

"Yes. That."

"I don't know. I'll have to check with Van Pelt."

He paused, hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat pocket, frowned as he looked out the windows. "If it was less than a week ago, you might want an autopsy…"

"Why?"

"Just a thought."

"Jane?"

"Tell them to look for 'arsenic, strychnine and a pinch of cyanide'."

"Jane, what are you talking about?"

"Oh, nothing, Just an inside joke…"

"A bad one_._ And if the person has already been buried?"

"Meh. Exhume him."

"Him? You know it's a him?"

"Oh, they're all hims."

"_All…?"_

He brought his gaze back to her now. His eyes were gleaming. "Wanna bet five dollars?"

She sat forward, not sure whether to be delighted or furious. "Jane, what do you know?"

He smiled. "Absolutely nothing. I have to go."

"To play chess."

"Yes. To play chess. Goodbye, Lisbon. Call me if you get anything interesting. Or not."

She shook her head as he ambled from her office, and she went back to her computer.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

The _Sunshine Organic Supply Company_ was in fact a farm located on the outskirts of south _Sacramento._ Cho and Rigsby exchanged glances as they parked the SUV near what appeared to be a chicken coop. There were wires and satellite dishes attached to the roof. Several dogs of mixed breeding bounded up to greet them. Rigsby patted them as he looked around.

"Wow. The _Sunshine Organic Supply Company_…"

"Sounds trustworthy. Organic," said Cho. "SOS. _Save Our Supplements."_

Rigsby grinned. "Don't start."

Cho shrugged. "Natural, organic, holistic. Whatever you want to call it, this industry is big bucks with little or no scientific basis for their claims."

"You dissin' the Organic, bro?"

"It's just like 'Ancient Chinese Secret'. Tell me again how crushed tiger testicles will help my sex life?"

Rigsby grinned.

A man was walking toward them, early thirties, denim on denim, with an Oakland A's baseball cap and another dog at his side. Cho flashed his badge and the man tensed.

"We're with the CBI, sir. We'd like to ask you a few questions about some of your products."

"CBI? What in the world is a CBI?"

Cho sighed. He always seemed to get that question. He wished he had a pamphlet or a business card or brochure that he could give out whenever someone asked. Something other than a badge and a gun. He would have to suggest one to the higher ups.

He took a deep breath and began to explain.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Grace Van Pelt found her boss sitting in her office. There was a flower on her desk. It was in a Tylenol bottle, but still. Her boss never got flowers.

"Nice flower," she said tentatively.

"Yeah. Jane."

"Jane got you a flower?"

"For breaking into my desk and using up all my Tylenol."

"Oh. So it wasn't…"

Her boss stared at her, those green eyes flat and dangerous. "Wasn't _what?"_

"Oh, um. Nothing. Nothing. Um, the Holloways are here. Where do you want them?"

"In another state, far far away from here."

Van Pelt smiled.

Lisbon sighed. "Is there a lawyer with them?"

Van Pelt bit her lip. "Three."

Lisbon rolled her eyes. "Swell. Let's take them, one at a time, in Interrogation Room 2."

And her boss rose to her feet and left the office. Van Pelt lingered a moment, studying the wisteria in the Tylenol bottle. She smiled, turned and followed.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

"And…checkmate."

"That was five, Cranton. He got you in five moves!"

Jane sat back, and beamed. There was quite the crowd gathered around their little table, and most were simply excited to have such a series of games going on in their gathering room. In fact, after he had made over fifty dollars in the peanut game, chess fever seemed to have overtaken the crowd, and several tables were gaming for the privilege of taking on the blond man who had charmed their socks off. Even Oprah had been muted in favor of kings, queens, knights and Jane.

"My turn," smiled a stout woman with jet black hair. "I beat Callie, so it's my turn."

"Ah folks," Jane held up his hands and pushed away from the table. "I should be going."

"No, not yet," protested Harold. "It's not even lunch time. You can surely stay 'til lunch."

"Yes," said the stout woman. "It's lasagna today. They serve up a fine lasagna here."

"I'm not sure if lasagna would stay put…" He rose to his feet, ran his hands along his waistcoated belly. "Perhaps another time. I need to go for a walk."

Harold and Cranton exchanged glances and smiled.

"You remember the way, son?" grinned Harold.

"Yeah. Don't get lost, son. It's a big forest out there…" guffawed Cranton.

Jane tapped the side of his nose. "Like a hound dog on a scent."

And with a showman's flourish, he left the eager crowd in the great room and headed out the doors of _Cedar Ridge Retirement Home_ toward the black wrought iron fence.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Despite its primitive appearance, the _Sunshine Organic Supply Company_ was a tidy little operation. The Organic movement was an organized and growing one, with companies linked in a web of contact from supplier to consumer all across the state. In fact, Rigsby was impressed. Cho, however, remained skeptical.

"Arsenic is just a mineral, like potassium, like manganese," said Nathan Earl, the owner and operator of the _Sunshine Organic Supply Company._ He had taken them to his warehouse, which was in fact, a retrofitted machine shed. The chicken coop was the refinery. "It's necessary in our diets just like any other mineral. It's always the excess of any mineral that has undesirable side effects. Take lead for example. Lead has gotten a bad rap. So has mercury."

Cho stared at him. "And do you have lead and mercury in your supplements?"

"Depends on the supplement. Did you know pharmaceutical companies use mercury to stabilize many childhood vaccines? Most people don't know that."

"And the pharmaceuticals sure don't publish it," said Rigsby.

Earl raised his brow. "Do you wonder why? People already connect vaccinations with autism. Just throw mercury in the mix and you have a PR nightmare."

"Maybe the mercury causes the autism."

"And maybe autism shows up at the same age as kids getting their vaccines. It's a circular argument. Did you know that the FDA has just approved using arsenic in the treatment of some forms of leukemia? Its very presence increases white blood cell count." He looked at Cho. "The Chinese have been using it to treat cancer for thousands of years."

"That's why tigers are an endangered species."

Earl stared at him.

"Never mind," said Cho.

"Okay, so arsenic is needed for metabolism, but arsenic is also a toxin. Maybe your Holloway was sensitive. Our products do recommend that no supplement be taken without the consent of a doctor."

"On the label?" asked Cho. "And in what font size?" He held up a bottle, squinted. "I'd make that a two. Almost impossible to read."

Nathan Earl folded his arms across his chest. "Are you pressing charges, officer?"

"_Agent,_ and no. Just asking questions."

Rigsby smiled. "He's good at that."

"He'd make a better lawyer," grumbled Earl. Cho smiled at that. "Look, I'm really sorry the old guy died. But it's not my fault. Our operation is clean and we run according to all government specs. I don't know what else I can tell you."

Cho glanced at Rigsby, shrugged.

"Don't leave town."

Earl grinned and grabbed two bottles from his shelves, tossed one each to the agents.

Cho looked at his. "ProLifera."

"St. John's Wort, Griffonia seeds, blue pimpernel and Korean Ginseng. A natural anti-depressant and stress reliever."

Rigsby laughed and looked at his bottle. "ProAndrosa?"

"L-Argentine, Korean Ginsing and Gingko Bilbao. All great for the male sex drive."

Rigsby stared at the man in horror. "I – I don't need…"

Earl shrugged. "Can't hurt."

It was Rigsby's turn to shrug. "Cool."

"Almost as good as tiger testicles," said Cho. "As I said, don't leave town."

"Good day, officers."

"_Agents."_

And the agents, not officers, left the small warehouse and headed toward the SUV, bottles firmly in hand.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Patrick Jane smiled and breathed in deep the smells of the garden.

Theodora leaned across the white wicker table and laid a hand on his sleeve. "Now would you like to try a different brew, Patrick? We have a lovely camillia petal and mint blend we're dying to try out on someone."

He turned to her. "Oh yes. That would be lovely."

"Just a moment, pet. I'll tell Estelle. She'll be so happy."

And the tall woman rose and disappeared into the house.

He looked around the garden. It was very lush, with a wide variety of flowers and herbs all in amazing vigor. Not a brown leaf to be seen. He was seated at a white wicker table with white wicker chairs, under a canopy of wisteria. There was what seemed to be a make-shift potting shed near the house, and his eyes swept the tables inside. Pots, earth, compost bins, tools. Nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary. Just the passion of two lovely ladies, devoted to their garden.

And to the sharing of their garden with others.

Both Theodora and Estelle returned now, Estelle carrying the china pot, Theodora carrying a tray of cups, milk and sugar. All was set down on the table.

"We need to let it steep," said Estelle. "None of this 'dip and sip' business."

"No 'dip and sip'," agreed Theodora.

Jane looked down, smiling. He was a dip'n'sipper, true enough. It was an American thing. The rest of the world took time with their tea. Americans dipped and sipped and dashed.

"How often did Eugene come over?" he asked as he waited for the tea to steep.

"Oh, once or twice a week," said Estelle.

"Yes, once or twice. Maybe three times," said Theodora.

"Yes, maybe three. Eugene liked his tea."

"Yes, he did. Terrible business, his death."

"Yes, terrible business."

He could hear birds, watched the bees carry from plant to plant. It was very peaceful. He found himself smiling for no reason.

"It should be ready now, Estelle. Poor Patrick has been waiting for so long."

_Had he?_ He had honestly lost track of time.

"Yes, of course you're right, Theodora. It should be ready now." She reached for the pot, her hand thin and bony and very white. "Would you like to add the milk first, Patrick?"

"Oh yes, thank you." And he did, and the golden brew poured from the china spout like nectar. He could smell it so clearly.

"Your garden is very healthy, yeh?"

The ladies beamed. "Why yes, Patrick," said Estelle. "It is very healthy."

"Do you use ladybugs?"

They beamed some more. "Ladybirds, dear," corrected Theodora. "Ladybirds."

"Ah yes. And Preying Mantis?"

"Why yes, those too. They are most effective."

"And you make your own pesticides, yeh?"

"Well, dear, sometimes the ladybirds and mantids simply do not do the job."

"Leaf blight, you know. Savage business."

"Yes. Savage business."

And they waited with baited breath as he lifted the porcelain cup to his lips, took a sip.

He closed his eyes.

"Heaven," he said.

"Oh my, Estelle. That's high praise."

"High praise, indeed. Do you believe in Heaven, Patrick?"

He opened his eyes, blinked slowly. "No, I'm afraid I don't."

The widows nodded, looked sad. "That's too bad. I'm certain your wife will be waiting for you when you get there."

He smiled, albeit sadly.

"And your daughter, too," added Theodora. "What was her name again? You told us yesterday."

"Charlotte," said Estelle. "Her name was Charlotte."

"That's a lovely name. Was she a lovely girl, Patrick?"

"Did she look like you, or your wife?"

"She certainly had curly hair, I would imagine," said Theodora.

"Oh yes, curly, curly hair. Like an angel."

"You will most certainly meet her when you get to heaven, Patrick."

"Oh yes, you most certainly will."

And for once in his life, Patrick Jane began to wish that there might be a heaven, a place where his wife and daughter could live and be together forever in clouds and angels and gardens and peace.

But he knew for a fact that he himself would never get there.

And as he welcomed the new rush of sadness, the widows topped up his tea.

_End of Chapter 4 _


	5. Chapter 5

_**Arsenic and Red Lace**_

_Chapter 5_

Teresa Lisbon frowned into the phone. "I know it's unusual, but it might be important."

On the other end, Madeleine Hightower was not impressed. "You want me to call a grieving daughter to ask permission to exhume her father, whom she just buried last week? On a hunch?"

"On one of_ Jane's_ hunches, ma'am. He did know that this last death in the home would be a man. You know how he's right about these things."

"And when he's wrong, who picks up the pieces?"

Lisbon pouted. "You do, ma'am."

"That's right, Agent Lisbon. I do." There was silence on the other end for several moments and Lisbon held her breath. "Alright, Agent Lisbon, I will do this ghastly thing. But if he's wrong, _**you **_will pick up the pieces this time. Have I made myself clear?"

"Perfectly, ma'am."

The line went dead and Lisbon hung up her phone. She narrowed her eyes and glared at the flower.

"Jane, so help me, if this hunch goes south, I will personally take this flower and shove it up your –"

"Boss?" It was Van Pelt.

Lisbon glanced up quickly. "I wasn't talking to it."

"To what?"

"The flower. I wasn't talking to the flower."

"I know." And the red head smiled a little smile that spoke volumes. Lisbon set her jaw.

"What do you want?"

"Um, Rigsby and Cho are on their way back."

"Okay, call Jane. Tell him to get his sorry ass back here, pronto. We have to go over these Holloway statements."

"Yes, boss." And Grace Van Pelt slipped out the door, the smile still playing on her lips.

Lisbon sighed. Damn Patrick Jane and his hunches and his sorry ass and his happy little flowers. She had a case to solve, and she was going to do it, come hell or high water.

She paused for only a moment to consider the many little idioms she had been uttering lately. _Like a hound dog on a scent. Like a dirty shirt. Come hell or high water._

Trust Jane to pick up on it.

She shook it off and went back to work.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

"He seems legit," said Rigsby as he munched his burrito. They had 'driven' thru' for a late lunch, brought fast food Tex-Mex delicacies back for all. They were a generous bunch, thought Lisbon, always enjoying the shared camaraderie of meal times. Either that, or they simply loved to eat. "He knew his stuff, knew his laws. He sure put Cho through his paces."

"I wouldn't talk, ProAndros-man," grumbled Cho.

"What's that?" asked Van Pelt. "Pro-what?"

"Nothing," said Rigsby, rather quickly. "Nothing at all."

Cho grinned, popped a Mexi-fry into his mouth.

Lisbon frowned and slurped her soda. "So, this Nathan Earl said that Holloway was just sensitive to arsenic? That sounds a little lame, don'tcha think?" She frowned some more and sat back as if noticing something. "And where the hell is Jane?"

"Oh, he's on his way," said Grace. "He was just finishing tea."

"I thought he was playing chess?"

Grace shrugged. "He doesn't sound too good."

"He's sick," Lisbon sighed. "I'm not getting anything from the Holloways, Sure they wanted the old man's money, and sure they're a collectively nasty piece of work, but they don't come off as murderers to me, 'inheritance powder' or no."

"And there was no arsenic found in the house," added Van Pelt. "Not even ant poison."

Rigsby put his feet up, took another chomp out of his burrito. "Maybe it's a little bit of everything. A little arsenic from the supplements, a little from the deck, you know… cumulating."

"Yeah," said Cho. "And maybe he wasn't as healthy as everyone thought he was."

Lisbon cocked her head. "Maybe he had some underlying condition that suppressed his immune system, made him susceptible to arsenic in any amount. Damn, if we have to exhume him too, Hightower will kill me…"

The bullpen was quiet for a moment.

Lisbon's cell phone buzzed. She glowered at the name on the dial.

"Jane, where the hell are you?"

The team looked away. They had long since stopped betting on who would kill the consultant first, some irritated congressman, Red John or Teresa Lisbon. All money was on Lisbon.

"You're what? Aw, _Jaaaane…."_

She sighed, rubbed her brow with her free hand. It pushed her bangs to one side.

"Alright, Just stay there. Don't go anywhere, got it? _Got it?_ Alright." She folded her phone and looked up at them.

"Jane is stuck on the I-80."

"Stuck?" asked Van Pelt. "In traffic?"

"No. He's sick."

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""

They were headed _with_ the traffic at this time of day, so it took them a while to see the Citroen pulled over on the opposite side of the road. They took an off-ramp, did the loop and entered back onto the highway easily. Within minutes, they had pulled up behind the little silver car.

Jane was sitting on the shoulder, back against the front tire.

He looked ill.

"Hey," he called as both Lisbon and Cho walked toward him, and he managed a little wave. "Not liking the 'worse'."

Lisbon knelt down, touched his forehead. "You're cold."

"Am I?"

"So help me, Jane, if I get sick because of you, I _will_ kill you. I promise."

"Okay." He sounded like a little boy. He held up his hand. In it was another sprig of wisteria.

"It would look pretty in your hair," he said weakly.

"You are _so _sick," she grumbled.

She bent under one arm, Cho slipped under the other, and together they helped him to his feet. They began to trudge slowly back to the SUV.

"Wait, wait," he said. "What about my car?"

"I'll drive it back," said Lisbon.

"No. No." He grabbed her arm. "You don't understand. She's a delicate little thing. Old school. Touchy clutch."

She glared at him. "I can drive stick."

"I'm sure you can, Lisbon. But Cho's a better driver. I trust you with my life but I trust him with my car."

Cho smiled to himself, vindicated.

"Maybe I'll just kill you now," she snarled under her breath.

And that was when Patrick Jane did something he'd never, ever done in his entire life.

He threw up.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

"You should take him home," said Hightower, arms crossed as she watched him sleeping on the couch. "This stomach flu has knocked out a lot of people. We don't need him making things worse. Especially in a retirement home."

Lisbon shrugged. "Apparently, he's never been sick before. I don't trust him to take care of himself on his own."

The tall woman turned to look at her with great dark eyes, as if she could stare her way right into Lisbon's soul, and suddenly, Teresa Lisbon felt very vulnerable. She looked away, tucked her hands behind her back.

"But if you insist, I'll drive him there myself. And leave him. Just leave him there. Yes, ma'am. I'll do that."

Hightower sighed. "No, I'll trust you on this one, Agent Lisbon. But if the rest of your team gets sick…"

And she let it hang for a moment, before turning to leave. She did, however, pause at the glass door of the bullpen.

"Oh, and Agent Lisbon, we got a green light on that exhumation. I've ordered it for tomorrow morning."

"We might need another one…"

"Another one what?"

"Another exhumation, ma'am. A couple more, actually."

Hightower glared at her.

"Or, or, or maybe not. Thank you though, for this one," she said to the receding figure and turned one more time to study the sleeping man on the couch. He was curled up on himself, clutching his stomach as if in pain. Which, given the nature of stomach flu, was entirely possible.

She reached over and grabbed the tattered blanket and draped it over his shoulders. Went back into her office, where now two wisteria flowers were waiting.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Rigsby and Van Pelt made the drive once again to _Rocklin,_ CA, and to the_ Cedar Ridge Retirement Home. _They were assigned the task of going from apartment to apartment, checking the labels on any and all medications, vitamins and supplements on hand, especially those of the organic variety. All supplements from the _Sunshine Organic Supply Company_ would be confiscated.

Danielle DeVuono met them in the lobby.

She smiled at them her most cooperative smile, clasped her hands professionally in front of her. "I've sent out a memo to all the staff, and the residents have been notified of the search. The nursing coordinator in each wing will take you personally into every room. We want the lives of the residents disturbed as little a possible."

"Of course," said Van Pelt.

"We don't supply the vitamins," said DeVuono.

"Beg pardon?" asked Rigsby.

"We don't supply any vitamins. If Mr. Holloway or any other of our residents have vitamins or supplements, that is in no way the responsibility of _Cedar Ridge._ Most especially in the Independent Living wings."

"Oh no, ma'am," said Van Pelt. "We're not here to assign blame. We just want to make sure there are no supplements with arsenic compounds that might pose a threat to another senior."

"Yes, of course," sighed DeVuono, relieved. She glanced around the lobby. "Um, is Mr. Jane with you?"

"No," said Rigsby. "He stayed at the office."

"Oh." Danielle DeVuono looked down at her hands.

Rigsby and Van Pelt exchanged glances. "Why do you ask?"

DeVuono brightened. "Oh, the residents like him. He's made quite an impression."

Rigsby smirked. "Impression, huh? Did he do the peanut game?"

"As a matter of fact, he did. He's very entertaining."

"Oh yes. Just make sure they check their wallets."

Grace cleared her throat.

"Well, please tell him that they were asking for him."

Grace smiled. "We will."

"Well," the woman bowed very slightly, hands still clasped together. "Let me know if I can be of any help. Good day." And she turned and left the pair in the large, welcoming lobby of _Cedar Ridge Retirement Home._

Rigsby grunted. "I'm sure Jane made an impression, all right. Right where it says 'signature of card-holder'…"

Van Pelt swatted him. "Stop it."

They turned and began to walk to the administration desk.

"'Oooh, Mr. Jane, you're so entertaining, Mr. Jane. The residents love you, Mr. Jane. Can I get you any more peanuts, Mr. Jane?'"

And she swatted him again but she was laughing.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

The rest of the afternoon had come and gone, and the golden rays of evening cast long shadows into the CBI headquarters. Many agents had gone home for the night, as in fact, some days were strictly nine to five. Other agents worked in quiet concentration, at computers or various stations around the building and the janitorial staff had begun their first shift of the night.

Kimball Cho had gone home. Apparently, he had a date with the leggy Elise Chai. Van Pelt and Rigsby weren't back from _Cedar Ridge_ yet. Lisbon had asked them to interview the staff next, see if there was anyone who was a closet pharmacist, or disgruntled employee, or long-lost love child of Eugene Holloway. Motives often took on bizarre and disturbing turns in the seemingly simplest of cases. DeVuono had sent a list of all current employees and Lisbon was checking them against the NCIC, NICS, and NLETS databases. It wasn't much, but it was a place to start.

There was something missing.

She knew what it was, but it couldn't be helped. That 'something' was laying on the couch in the bullpen, with stomach cramps and the chills. His input was invaluable in any case, and with this bug taking him out so quickly in the game, she felt incomplete, like they weren't giving it their best shot, accessing all their resources, for in truth, their best resource was the insight of Patrick Jane.

She sighed, laced her fingers together and stretched her arms over her head, enjoying the feel of her muscles lengthening along her ribs and sides. She sat for a moment, debating whether she should reach into her desk for a shot of scotch, or go to the kitchenette for a cup of coffee. She smiled as she weighed out her choices.

Alcohol, caffeine and arsenic. Vastly different chemical compounds producing vastly different physiological responses, but ultimately, they were just chemicals, used by people to achieve a particular end. Arsenic didn't kill people. People killed people. The only difference was in the efficacy of the weapon.

She rose to her feet, deciding on the coffee, and when she stepped out of her office into the dimly lit bullpen, she noticed their 'best resource' sitting up on his couch. His shirt was untucked, waistcoat loose, sleeves rolled up, and his head in his hands.

She smiled.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" she asked.

"I woofed my cookies."

"You…you what?"

"Threw up, vomited, barfed, puked, blew chunks, I don't care. Whatever you call it, it was gruesome." He looked up at her. "I have a headache."

"I don't have any Tylenol. Someone stole it."

He looked down and sighed. It broke her heart.

"I can check around. I'm sure someone will have something."

He nodded, as if lost in thought.

She pursed her lips, glanced around. "Um, I'll go check in the kitchen…"

"Lisbon?"

"Yes?"

"Do you ever think about dying?"

She almost fell over. He rarely got serious, but when he did, it was always like a transport truck running without brakes on the highway. You got out of the way or it killed you.

"You are not dying, Jane. You just have the stomach flu."

"It's an honest question."

"Oh. Sorry." She leaned against the corner of her office, folded her arms across her chest. "Yeah. I do. You can't be in a job like this and not think about it."

He nodded again, seemed ready to leave it at that, but he so rarely opened a door like this, and she was unwilling to let it close without at least an attempt.

"Are you thinking about Eugene Holloway?"

"He was a sad man. His wife died and he never got over it. He was very, very sad…"

_So that was it._ For some strange reason, he saw himself in Eugene Holloway. Playing chess with the old guys, finding significance in their approval and applause. These were quickly becoming deep waters. She hoped she could remember how to swim.

"Yeah. It is sad. He seemed like a lovely man."

"Estelle Mountbatten was married at nineteen, widowed at twenty. Her husband went to war in Korea, never came back. Her sister, Theodora, was married at twenty-four, had a baby at twenty-five. She was working the night shift when her husband fell asleep with a cigarette and burned the house down. Both husband and baby died in the fire."

She was silent. Life was a bitch sometimes. She knew that as well as he.

"But they're not sad. Not like Eugene, not like—" he caught himself, collected his wits, continued. "Not like Eugene at all."

She nodded, wondering if his uncharacteristic openness was, in part, caused by the flu bug, or if something even deeper was going on.

He sighed. "Do you think it hurt, dying like that?"

"Like Holloway?"

"Yeah, like him."

"I don't know. Probably."

"So why didn't anyone notice?"

_Damn him and his deep, deep waters. She was out of her league._

"Probably because he kept it to himself."

She felt a weight shift as he nodded. Apparently, she had said the right thing. She pressed it.

"It's not good to keep things to yourself. Mr. Holloway might still be alive if he told his friends how he was feeling."

Now he did turn his eyes to her, and what she saw there surprised her. And truth be told, it frightened her, just a little.

"Yes, Lisbon," he said slowly. "He might still be alive, but he'd still be sad."

"Yes," she said, her throat tightening suddenly. "Yes, he'd still be sad."

And so they remained for several moments more, before she pushed off the wall and went in search of some Tylenol.

_End of Chapter 5_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Arsenic and Red Lace**_

_Chapter 6_

It was the morning of the exhumation, and both Lisbon and Jane were present as the backhoe dug away the fresh earth covering the grave of Telly Szkuras, a ninety-two year old former resident of _Cedar Ridge._ His sixty year old daughter was present as well and his thirty year old grandson and ten year old great-grandson. Lisbon smiled sadly to herself. Unlike Eugene Holloway, Telly Szkuras was obviously a missed man.

The coffin was being smoothed of dirt and stones now, and several cemetery attendants were waiting with crowbars to open it once given the green light. A small Forensics team was also assembled, for in truth there would only be a few tests required. A sample of hair, nails, skin and if possible, blood, although blood was one of the first things to begin decomposition. No, it was the hair they needed, more than anything. Just a lock of postmortem hair.

The grandson, George, stood watching, chewing on one fingernail in agitation. He turned to glance at her, eyes serious and dark.

"Tell me why this is necessary, Agent," he said finally.

She nodded, cleared her throat. "There was a suspicious death this week at _Cedar Ridge Retirement Home. _We just want to make sure it was only one."

He nodded now, thought a moment more. "But Grandpa had cancer."

"I know. No one would think to check."

"Hmm."

"We're not certain of anything at his point, Mr. Strombopolos. We just want to make sure."

"Hmm."

And with a final yank and crack, they pulled the top up to reveal the body of ninety-two year old Telly Szkuras. Immediately, a fresh round of tears began as the Forensics team got to work.

She snuck a glance at Jane.

He was standing a little ways off, arms folded across his chest, watching the proceedings with weary interest. He was very pale, with dark circles under his eyes and little hollows in his cheeks. Most of the agents with this bug went home after the first day. For Jane to be still on his feet was impressive. True, he was swaying, but he was still on his feet.

She strolled over to his side.

"You wanna stick around, maybe take another peek at _Cedar Ridge_, or head back?"

"Oh, head back. Most definitely."

She nudged him with her elbow. "You sure? No smokin' chess match or hot tea date pressing?"

He managed to grin. "Oh, I'm booked up until next Tuesday. But it's good to no-show once in a while. Keeps 'em on their toes."

"Always working the crowds."

"It's life's bread and butter."

Together, they turned and began to stroll back to the SUV, leaving the Forensics team, the cemetery staff and the grieving family of Telly Szkuras behind them.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

It was the second day of interviews at _Cedar Ridge Retirement Home,_ and Wayne Rigsby was getting bored. Same old stories, same old lines. Eugene Holloway was a nice man. No, I didn't know him that well. He was quiet. He was sad. Lovely man. Couldn't play chess to save his life.

He sighed, folded his notebook closed, and stole a glance at the other table where Grace Van Pelt was working. She was talking to a woman who must have been in her nineties, frail and white-headed, like a dandelion gone to seed. But the women were smiling and laughing and he wondered at how easy it was for women to bond so quickly. Men were different that way. Generally, men needed food, beer, or a ball of some sort before bonding could officially begin.

He craned his neck in an attempt to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Oh, you will one day, Grace," Talita Sutton was saying. "And it will be the best thing you've ever done. Children are the glory of the aged."

Grace blushed. "I think I'd like three. That seems like a good number."

"Actually, if you don't mind my saying so, stick with an even number. Two, four, six or eight."

"Eight!" Van Pelt exclaimed as the dark brown eyes grew larger. "I don't think I could manage four, let alone eight."

"Believe me dear, the hard part is going from one to two. Everything after that is gravy."

"I'll keep that in mind. So, um, back to my original question. If Eugene Holloway was such a lovely man—"

"Yes, he was a lovely man."

"How come he has three rather horrible children?"

Talita Sutton shook her frail head. "That's one of the mysteries of life, Grace. Perhaps he was too kind, too permissive. You need some backbone when you raise kids or they turn out like bad dogs, snarly, snappy and whiny."

Grace thought about the Holloway children. _Snarly, Growly_ and _Hissy._ It seemed to fit.

"Was there anything out of the ordinary that you might think of his behaviour in his last days? Anything odd, strange, obsessive maybe?"

Talita Sutton thought for a moment. Her eyes were small and moist and brilliantly blue. They looked like sapphires stuck into a withered apple. She had a nice face.

"Not strange, but he _was _one of the Gents."

"The gents?"

"The Gents. Gentlemen who frequently take tea with…" Her dewy eyes glanced around the library. "With _them."_

"_Them,_ ma'am?"

"The widows. At least, that's what the Gents call them. Two sisters who live together in the forest just outside the west gate."

"Oh." Van Pelt made a note. "Outside the compound?"

She nodded. "Not allowed. Against the rules. They have to sneak in and out. Makes the staff crazy."

"Have you ever been there?"

Talita Sutton made a funny noise. "Oh no, dear. I would never go there. Women aren't invited there. Not that I've ever heard. It's a gentlemen's club, to be sure."

"The widows. Hmmm. You wouldn't happen to know their names, now would you?"

The old woman smiled and those sapphires almost disappeared inside the wrinkles. "No clue, child. The Gents just call them the widows. But we ladies…we ladies call them the Harpies." And she threw back her head and laughed.

Grace Van Pelt threw an alarmed look at Rigsby. He raised his brows.

"Thank you for your time, ma'am." And the junior Agent excused herself and moved over to where her partner was sitting. "Did you hear any of that?"

"Widows. Sounds creepy."

"It's not creepy. It's sad…" She looked down for a minute. "Do you think we should check it out?"

He shrugged. "It's a lead. We can get off the property for a bit. A little stroll in a forest would be nice right about now." He was looking at her with big puppy dog eyes.

She steeled her heart. "We should talk to the director, Ms. DeVuono. She might have some information. Names at least."

He shrugged again. He missed her terribly. He'd do anything to spend some alone time with her, even if it was just casework. "Sure, we need to talk to her about that Nursing Assistant anyway. Ronald Simpson."

"Right then, let's go."

And together, they went off in search of Danielle DeVuono.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Lisbon folded up her phone and slipped it into her pocket.

"Who are the widows?"

He had been uncharacteristically quiet on the drive back to _Sacramento._ Usually, she was okay with his silences, for it usually meant he was deep in thought over some case or another. But after their conversation last night, she found the silence a little disturbing, and wanted to short circuit his preoccupation with death and dying.

"Jane?"

"What?"

"The widows? Grace said that Eugene Holloway used to visit 'the widows.' Do you know anything about that?"

"Aah..." He frowned, seemed to be choosing his words. Or he could have been trying to keep his stomach in one piece. It was hard to tell. He looked green.

"Jaane..."

"Estelle Mountbatten and Theodora Getty."

"Are they from Cedar Ridge?"

"Ah, no. They live in a house just off the property."

"And you know about them how?"

"Harold and Cranton took me there for tea. Sweet women. Harmless."

"But Eugene Holloway used to visit them."

"I think many men visit them. They're spry old ladies and it's a lovely place. Very peaceful."

She stared at him.

"They live for their garden."

"But you're sure they're harmless."

"Wouldn't hurt a fly." He turned to look at her, smiled wickedly. "They do make a mean cup of tea."

She grinned, reassured.

"So, do you honestly think there's more than one vic here?"

"Oh yes. Most definitely."

"Why do you think that?"

"Just a hunch."

"Really? You think there's a serial killer at work in _Cedar Ridge Retirement Home?"_

"Oh no. No. No."

She frowned, gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. "Just many arsenic-laced deaths…"

He seemed to think about that a moment. "Yes, you could say that."

"What aren't you telling me, Jane? Have you heard anything from your new pals, Howard and Stanton?"

"Harold and Cranton," he corrected. "And if I did know anything, Lisbon, I would most certainly tell you."

"No you wouldn't."

"Yes I would."

"No you wouldn't."

"Yes I would."

"No, you wouldn't. You'd hold out one last vital piece of information, some clue that only you had picked up on, embark on some cock-a-mamie scheme that would end up getting yourself almost killed in the process but revealing the killer in some melodramatic and totally unnecessary fashion that would utterly compromise our ability to prosecute the case in court. _That's _what you would do."

"Balderdash. I would never do anything like that."

She snorted.

He sighed. "This is a complicated thing, Lisbon. It brings up many, many complicated issues. Ethical issues, moral issues, personal issues. Issues that quite frankly, I am not certain I was prepared to deal with."

She turned to stare at him. He was splashing her with that deep, deep water. "_What?_ What issues? An old guy dies with arsenic in his blood. What ethical, moral or personal issues are we talking about?"

He shrugged, looked out the window.

"No," she growled. "Don't you do that. You started this. Finish it. What issues are we talking about?"

He took a deep breath. "Well, for one thing—"

Her phone rang again.

"Damn," she growled again, "Hold that thought."

"Consider it held."

She fished for her phone, pulled it out. It was Van Pelt again.

"Hey. Yeah. Alright then, have the _Rocklin_ PD bring him down. I want Cho on him, got it? Yeah, we'll be back in half an hour."

She folded her phone and looked back at Jane. "Ronald Simpson, Nursing Assistant at _Cedar Ridge_. Has two drug convictions and an aggravated assault charge on a senior to his credit. _Rocklin _PD is bringing him in."

"Cool."

"So what about these issues?"

"What issues?"

"Jane!"

"I'm feeling sick, Lisbon. All this talking is giving me a headache. Please don't make me throw up again. I really didn't like that."

"I'll shoot you. I swear."

"Even that would be better than throwing up." He sighed, gazed out the window. "That was mortifying. I never want to do that again. I'm glad I can't get pregnant. Three months of morning sickness and I would be a basket case. And why does stomach acid turn everything orange? Is there something in the green that gets leached out? Or is it a metabolic by-product of digestion on the dyes in our food? Honestly, Lisbon, there is so much to know in this world. So much to know."

She smirked and relaxed her grip on the steering wheel.

It wasn't until much later that she realized he had totally manipulated the conversation away from himself and his 'issues', and she never had found out what they were.

And when she did, it would be too late.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""

Ronald Simpson was a short, heavy-set fellow, balding and compensating by shaving his head and growing a goatee. He was in his thirties, and according to his sheet, he had been a dealer in his teens and twenties, stealing and selling prescription drugs at an exorbitant price. He had also been convicted of assaulting one of his clients, an elderly woman named Joan Casper over a baggie full of Percocets. Joan Casper had since passed on. Ronald Simpson had since moved on.

"I hardly even knew, what's his name, Holloway," insisted Simpson. "He was in the Independent wing. I was EOL care."

"Strange," said Cho, clasping his hands together across the desk. "How a man goes from helping seniors die by prescription drugs, to helping seniors die. Period."

"No, it's not like that," groaned the man. He sat back in his chair, eyes flicking to the mirror behind Cho's head. He knew it was two-way. He'd been in rooms like this before.

"Tell me what it is like, then," said Cho.

Lisbon smiled. Kimball Cho was the best interrogator she'd ever known. He was calm, collected and completely unreadable, one moment on your side, the next moment at your throat. Brilliant, she marveled, and wondered how long he would last in her unit before the Feds snatched him up.

"I got straight. In the joint, I mean."

"In the joint. You mean in jail."

"Yeah. I served my time, but you know what? It was the best thing to ever happen to me."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. You ever been in the joint, man?"

"No," he lied.

"It's rough and I got scared. So scared that I took advantage of the courses that were offered. There was this one course – Gerontology…"

"Gerontology."

"Yeah, the study of old people. Anyway, I ate it up. I just loved it. I was raised by my grandma, man. I love old people."

"That's why you sold them drugs. Because you love them so much."

"Probably. I wanted them to be out of their pain. Plus I made a decent living on the side."

"And that's why you beat up Joan Casper? You wanted her to be out of pain?"

"No, man. She was whacked. She said I jipped her on the Percs, but I didn't. She came at me, man, like a crazy old cat, hitting and spitting. I just pushed her away, she falls down and breaks a hip! And_ I_ get charged with assault!" He pointed to what looked like a pimple on his neck. "And I still got a scar."

"Impressive. So, you were just trying to help her be out of her pain. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"Did you want Eugene Holloway to be out of his pain?"

"No."

"So you wanted him to be _in_ pain?"

"No! I mean, sure, if he was in pain, I would have wanted him…to be…out of pain, but I wouldn't do nothin' about it…"

"So if a man was in pain, you wouldn't do anything about it?"

Lisbon grinned again. Cho was very good.

"No, of course I would. But, but only if it was legal. I have a job. It's a good job. I help people. I don't need to be selling." He shook his head, leaned back in his chair. "I don't need to be selling."

Cho looked at his notes.

"Did you ever sell supplements?"

Simpson glanced up. "What?"

"Supplements? Organic vitamins, minerals, non-prescription medications?"

He shook his head again. "Uh, no."

"Have you ever heard of the _Sunshine Organic Supply Company?"_

The man ran a hand over his head. "I think there was a memo about that this morning, at work…"

"Uh huh."

"Maybe you should talk to Sandy Greenwald."

"Sandy Greenwald?"

"Yeah. Another NA. She's really into that Organic stuff. I can kinda see it, but I like protein powder myself. Power bars. The body needs fuel, man. Especially when you're working out…"

Cho swiveled in his chair to look at the glass. He couldn't see in, it was simply a gesture.

She rapped once. They were done.

Ronald Simpson, ex-prescription drug dealer and senior assaulter, was innocent.

She turned to Jane.

He was asleep in a chair.

She shook her head, bent down to feel Jane's forehead and his lids blinked open at her touch.

"Did I miss anything?"

"Only an emotional confession, a struggle for Cho's gun and a SWAT team taking them both down."

"Damn." He grinned. "Have you ever read Hamlet?"

She helped him to his feet. "Of course I've read Hamlet. I did finish high school, after all."

"Ah yes. High school. The rite of most American teens. I forget such things."

"The joys of carnie life. Why?"

He shrugged. "I had a dream I was Hamlet."

"Not – you were _in_ Hamlet," she smirked. "You _were_ Hamlet?"

"Yep. Then I turned into Charlie Brown."

"_Uh_-huh. I think you're more like Linus. Was I there?"

"Oh yes. You were Lucy. Lucy is a Van Pelt. Isn't it interesting how the subconscious mind works?"

"You're a blockhead."

"I think I'm going to woof my cookies."

"You're a sick blockhead. Five cents please."

And she helped him to the nearest men's room, where he did indeed woof his cookies, thereby missing the call from the real Van Pelt and her suitor, the Peanut man, regarding the widows, a black iron gate and a furious Danielle DeVuono.

_End of Chapter 6_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Arsenic and Red Lace**_

_Chapter 7_

Patrick Jane looked like he was ready to 'woof his cookies' once again. Teresa Lisbon sighed.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"This morning. At the cafeteria. I had bacon and eggs and sausages, toast, buttermilk pancakes and a plate of their deliciously greasy home fries. Hmm…What else…?"

"Else? There's more?" Her eyes grew round as he continued.

"Oh yes, their fresh fruit in a cup, although why it has to go in a cup is beyond me. A bowl would do perfectly. Or even a plate. A glass of grapefruit juice, and of course, a cup of tea." He smiled at her. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

"And you kept it all down?"

"Oh no," he said brightly. "It all came back. To my credit, I did make it to the men's room that time too. That's three times, Lisbon. Can I expect it to be done soon?"

She smirked and shook her head. "Feed a cold, starve a fever. Except you don't have a fever. You're cold."

He placed his own hand on his forehead, frowned. "Cold? I'm cold?"

"Relatively speaking. You should have a fever. One of the symptoms of stomach flu—"

"Gastroenteritis. Influenza is a respiratory disease."

"Whatever – is fever and chills."

"Oh, the chills, I do have."

"I know, but no fever."

He smiled at her again, looking for a moment like his old self. "It's a mystery."

She couldn't help herself from smiling back. "Yes, Jane. _You_ are a mystery. You can't even get sick like a normal person."

"So where are we going, precisely?"

For in fact, they were once again in the SUV, she in the driver's seat, he the only passenger.

"I'm taking you to a friend of mine."

"Ooh, a boyfriend?"

She laughed now. "No, Jane. Not a boyfriend."

"An ex-boyfriend?"

She pursed her lips and Jane sat back smugly. "Got it in two."

"He's a doctor. He runs a walk-in clinic out of _Sutter General."_ She threw him a sideways glance when she noticed the subtle change in body language. "Don't worry. You'll like him."

"'Cause I like _all _doctors."

"You'll like Craig. Trust me."

"Craig, the likeable ex-boyfriend doctor. Does he have a pink plastic playhouse in Malibu?"

"Jane…"

"'Cause I have a_ real_ playhouse in Malibu. It's not pink though. Nor plastic."

"Jaa-haane…" But she was laughing as the car took another off-ramp toward _Sutter General Hospital._

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

The waiting room for the walk-in clinic was packed with people. Many seniors, many mothers with children, most lower income or street people from the looks of their clothes. It smelled of whisky and shoes, sweat and sanitizer, and the noise in the room was like the buzzing of many bees. There were large windows along one side looking out onto the street and the walls were painted a sickly hospital green.

"Patrick Jane!" called a woman from the desk. She was a short woman with dark curls piled on the top of her head. She was dressed in scrubs, which happened to be the same colour as the walls.

Lisbon turned to him. "Come on. Let's go."

He was standing by those windows, arms wrapped around himself, looking as sickly and green as the walls.

She marched back, grabbed his elbow and together, they followed the woman down a long sickly green hallway. She stopped by a piece of equipment.

"We need your height and weight."

"Ah, Height five foot nine and three quarters-"

"On the scale, sir."

"Oh."

He leaned toward the scale. "Height, five foot nine and three quarters inches," he spoke loudly into the scale. "The weight depends. I had a big breakfast—"

"I need you to step on the scale sir."

"Oh. Of course."

He stepped on, and then off.

"No sir. I need to take your measurements on the scale."

"Yes, yes. Of course."

He stepped on, and then off.

Lisbon looked down, bit the insides of her cheeks.

"No sir. Step on and stay on."

"Oh. Right."

He stepped on, and stayed on.

He turned to look back at Lisbon, mouthed the words _"This is so exciting,"_ turned back to watch the scale work. Watched like a little boy as she brought the metal wand down to the top of his head. Watched her slide the weights along to determine his weight. Watched her as she made notes on her clipboard. Watched her as she turned and continued down the hall. Watched her stop, turn back to where he was staying.

"You can step down, now sir."

"Ah, yes. Good. May I go now?"

"You're not done, sir. Please follow me."

He looked at Lisbon. "There's more?"

She shoved him. "Go." And they headed down the hall toward the office of Dr. Craig Witherspoon, MD.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""

The woman handed him a plastic cup.

"We'll need a sample. There's a bathroom next door."

"A sample of what?"

The woman stared at him flatly.

"I don't do drugs." Jane studied the cup. "Although I had a fair number of Tylenol the other night…"

"It's not for drugs, sir. Just a routine screening."

"Anything I could put into this cup could probably go through any screen."

Lisbon wondered if she would have to file a report if she pulled her Glock right now.

"Are you declining the urine test, sir?"

He glanced at Lisbon, patted his belly. "Nerves."

"Please have a seat."

To her surprise, he obeyed.

"Please remove your jacket and roll up your sleeve."

He obeyed, sliding his jacket over the back of the chair. He bounced a little on the seat.

"Springy," said Jane.

She wrapped a swatch of black fabric around his arm, just above the elbow, tightened it with a tug. Began to squeeze a small black ball. Jane studied both fabric and ball with interest.

"Squishy," said Jane.

After a moment, she unwrapped the fabric and made some notes on her chart. She turned back to the desk and in one smooth motion, pulled a large length of rubber from a box. She wrapped it around Jane's upper arm in the same spot as before, tied it up with a snap.

"Snappy," said Jane.

"Make a fist, sir."

He obeyed, and the veins popped on his arm, as did many little tendons and muscles. The woman dabbed the inside of his elbow with a small cold wipe.

"Chilly," said Jane.

And she turned around one last time, the shiny shaft of a needle in her hands.

He bolted to his feet.

"Not happening," said Jane.

"Jane…"

"Sir, it's just a little needle. We need a sample of blood—"

"No. No blood. I don't do blood."

He took a step back, eyes glued to the hypodermic in the woman's hand.

"Are you declining the blood test, sir?" the woman sighed.

Jane nodded and began to peel the tourniquet from his arm.

"Very well, Doctor Witherspoon will be with you in a moment." She looked at Lisbon. "They have special hospitals for people like him." And with that, she left the room.

Methodically, he rolled down the sleeve, did up the buttons on the cuff, lifted the jacket from the back of the chair, slipped it on over his shoulders. When he looked at her, his expression was flat.

"Can we go now?"

"Jane, please."

For with a click, the door reopened and a man stepped in.

Teresa Lisbon smiled.

Jane had been eager to meet a man admitted to being one of Lisbon's ex-boyfriends. Sam Bosco, he had figured out quickly on his own, and it had surprised him. He had underestimated her. She was a woman of deep passions and deeper loyalty. It was only natural that her taste in men would touch on one of these two traits. Bosco had tripped the loyalty switch. But this man, Jane realized, this man was no Sam Bosco.

"Teresa?"

For in point of fact, Dr. Craig Witherspoon looked like Denzel Washington. Dark eyes, darker hair, broad perfectly-symmetrical smile that broadened upon seeing the CBI agent. With an easy laugh, he swept her into his arms in a hug, as if intent on proving the adage 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder.' Jane watched in fascination as Lisbon hugged back.

"It's good to see you again," she said as she managed to disentangle herself. It was a half-hearted disentanglement, Jane thought. She didn't want to let go. She still had feelings for him.

_Fascinating._

"And you too, Terry. I've missed you."

She blushed, brushed a lock of hair from her face. "Um, Craig Witherspoon, Patrick Jane."

The doctor reached out his hand. Jane eyed it but did not shake.

Lisbon sighed. "Jane doesn't shake."

"That's right," said Jane, hands firmly tucked in his pockets. "Germs."

"Ah, are you afraid of germs, Mr. Jane?"

"No, I just don't like them."

"You don't _like_ them?" asked Witherspoon, another smile threatening to split his face.

"Ah, that's correct. Germs bring sickness, sickness bring doctors. Third degree cause and effect."

"Jane hates doctors," said Lisbon, grinding her teeth.

"It's usually mutual," said Jane.

"Still, I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Jane," said Witherspoon. "You work with Teresa, right?"

"Yes, I do." Jane glanced at Lisbon. Her eyes were lowered, but she was smiling.

"It worked out then. I'm glad."

"Worked out?"

"Oh, you had just started with the unit the last time Terry and I spoke. She'd had…what was your word, Terry? Reservations?"

"I said he was a pain in the ass." Her eyes were still lowered. Still smiling. _Fascinating._

"Still am," said Jane, raising his brows.

"So, uh, how can I help?"

With the conversation changed, Lisbon looked up. "He's sick and I need him better."

"See?" Jane smiled. "Damn them germs."

Witherspoon glanced down at the chart in his hands.

"You've declined both blood and urine tests. Why?"

"Why not?"

"Why can't you just cooperate?" sighed Lisbon.

"I have my reasons."

"What reasons?"

"_My._ It's a pronoun _and _an adjective."

"You're refusing to cooperate," said Lisbon.

"Am not."

"Then prove it."

"I will."

"Now."

"Fine."

Witherspoon was following the dialogue like a spectator at a tennis match. Finally, he shook his head.

"Alright, let's see what we can find out - from the outside." And the GP stepped forward, held up a thin black light, shone it into Jane's eyes.

Jane blinked at his pupils contracted and expanded. "Whoa, spots."

"Mhmm. Stick out your tongue, open wide."

Jane did.

"Mhmm. Hold still." The GP reached his hands up to Jane's throat, felt all along underneath his jaw.

"Tickles," said Jane.

"Mhmm." A digital thermometer was pulled from a deep white lab coat pocket, popped into Jane's ear. After a moment, it beeped.

"Beepy," said Jane.

"Shut up," said Lisbon.

"Meanie," said Jane.

"Hmm," said the GP, reset the thermometer, tried again.

Jane rolled his eyes to the ceiling while they waited, but to his credit, he said nothing.

The device beeped again, Witherspoon checked the readings once again. Frowned, slipped it back in a deep white pocket. Made some notes on the chart.

"Can you lay down on the table, Mr. Jane?"

"Don't you have a couch? Most doctors want me to lay down on a couch."

"Uh, I'm not that kind of doctor. I just want to feel your abdomen."

"Ah, that's what they all say," but again he surprised her by obeying, hopping up easily and stretching out his legs, fingers laced across his middle as if dead.

"Can I ask you an ethical question, Craig?" asked Jane as he stared at the specks on the suspended ceiling. Witherspoon moved in beside.

"Of course. Hands at your sides." He placed his hands on Jane's belly. "Let me know when this hurts."

"Naturally. Have you ever been to Amsterdam, Craig?"

Lisbon snorted. "That's an ethical question?"

"No, Mr. Jane. I have never been to Amsterdam. Does it hurt when I press here?"

"Nope. Amsterdam has unusual laws regarding the practice of medicine."

"I've heard that, yes. What about here?"

"Nope. In fact, in Amsterdam, doctor-assisted suicide is legal – _OW!"_

"Yes, it is. They have very different laws regarding many things, euthanasia only one of them. So it hurts here?"

"I said Ow, ergo hurting is implied, yeh?"

Witherspoon grit his teeth. "And here?"

Jane drew in a sharp breath and Lisbon felt a pang of conscience. It was so easy to dismiss the consultant's discomfort with jokes and frivolous banter. He was in pain, and whether it was stomach flu or something else, he deserved to be treated with care. She resolved to think more kindly, speak more gently, keep the safety on her Glock.

"Alright Mr. Jane, please sit up." Witherspoon pulled the stethoscope from around his neck, slipped it under Jane's shirt and vest. "Deep breath."

"So what are your opinions on the matter?"

"No talking. Just breathing."

"But I want to know your opinion."

"And I want to check your lungs."

"I have two. And they will collectively hold their breath until you tell me what you think." He took a deep breath, cheeks puffed out like a little kid.

The GP glanced at Lisbon, who simply shrugged. He turned back to Jane. "Alright Mr. Jane. Opinions about what?"

Jane released his breath, smiled as if the answer should be perfectly obvious. "Why, euthanasia of course. Or suicide. Either one. Or both. To be or not to be. Why do you think we're talking about Amsterdam?"

The GP turned back to Lisbon. "I can see what you mean." He turned back to Jane. "Mr. Jane, we're not in Amsterdam. We're in California, and I am a Doctor of Medicine, so no, I don't endorse euthanasia or doctor-assisted suicide in any form. Life is life. No one has the right to dictate when it will end."

"Not even the patient himself?"

"Not even then."

"There are those who don't share that viewpoint."

"I know that."

"And what would you say to those who don't share that viewpoint?"

"I would say that in the State of California, it is a crime."

"And in the state of Craig Witherspoon?"

"It is still a crime."

"But is it wrong?"

"It's a _crime."_

"But is it _wrong?"_

Witherspoon stared at him. "That would be for a court of law to determine."

Jane stared back, eyes dancing. "Fascinating. Are we done?"

Now it was Witherspoon's turn to sigh. "Mr. Jane, you are definitely one sick man. You have broken blood vessels in your retinas, a lower than normal body temperature, pain in your stomach, liver and kidneys, hyperpigmentation in the buccal mucosa and a slight arrhythmia of the heart. It might be gastroenteritis, and it might be some form of food poisoning, but without blood or urine to test, I'm afraid I can't be of any more help."

"Ah well," said Jane, still smiling.

"Poisoning? Jane?" Lisbon, on the other hand, was beside herself. She glanced now from the consultant to the GP. "We're currently investigating a case which involves suspicious amounts of arsenic. Can this at all be related?"

"Arsenic? Oh sure, absolutely. But as I said, without blood, urine, hair or fingernail—

"Hair?"

"Well, hair is the best."

And without missing a beat, she swung out her hand and yanked out a lock of blond curls.

"OW!" yelped the consultant. He rubbed his head and pouted. Lisbon handed Witherspoon the curl.

"Hair. Run the tests_. Stat."_

"That hurt," said Jane, still pouting and rubbing his head.

"Craig," said Lisbon. "Thanks for everything." And she reached for his hand this time. No hug.

He took it. "I'll let you know when the results come back. But if it is arsenic, he needs treatment ASAP. Let me print out some files on Arsenic poisoning, if you can wait five minutes?"

"Sure, Craig. Thanks." And the GP left the room.

Lisbon swung around on the consultant. Her brow was dark and she looked very dangerous.

"Arsenic?" she growled.

"Diseases desperate grown by desperate appliance are relieved, or not at all," he said, nodding. _"Hamlet."_

He was about to say something else but suddenly a frown crossed his face. He hopped off the table, grabbed a wastebasket from the floor and promptly threw up.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, he straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"See," said Jane brightly. "I told you this would be exciting."

_End of Chapter 7_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Arsenic and Red Lace**_

_Chapter 8_

They said nothing on the drive back to CBI HQ. Lisbon was quietly fuming, Jane was tapping out a strange syncopated rhythm on the inside of the car door. It was a self-hypnosis technique. He was working on minimizing the chills that were running up and down his body. He was freezing, his stomach was in knots and the headache had returned stronger than ever. She had not looked at him, not even once, and he thought it understandable. And for the first time in a very long time, he found the silence heavy and oppressing. But he could think of no other way.

As they rolled into the parking lot, her phone rang. She pulled into the first available spot and fished it out of her pocket. He made a move for the door handle, but she hit the locks as she pulled the phone to her ear.

"Yeah, what? We just pulled in. Greenwald? Good. Have Cho…yes, you can be there too. In fact, that would be smart. Also, have Rigsby call the _Rocklin_ PD again. I want two residents from _Cedar Ridge_ brought in for questioning. Jane's chess buddies, Howard and Stanton—"

"Harold and Cranton," Jane muttered.

"Harold and Cranton. I don't know their last names. Talk to Danielle DeVuono. I want them here ASAP." She folded her phone, slipped it away, made no move to get out of the car.

"You don't need to do that," said Jane quietly.

"Well, if you won't cooperate, we'll just have to do this the old-fashioned way. It takes longer, but you know what, Jane, we can still get the bad guys, with or without your help."

"There's not always a bad guy, Lisbon."

She said nothing, but gripped and ungripped the steering wheel. He watched her breathing grow heavy, watched how her mouth tightened, how the little muscles in her jaw and cheek twitched. She was blinking now, too much.

'You're angry," he sad finally.

She swung around to him, eyes flashing. "Arsenic, Jane? _Arsenic?"_

"Just testing a hypothesis."

"By getting yourself killed?"

"Oh, I won't—"

"Do you think this is a game? How many men have died already? Do you even know?"

He couldn't answer her.

"Why won't you tell me? I thought you trusted me?"

"I do, Lisbon. I trust you with my life. I truly do."

"Then why don't you trust me with this?"

He looked down.

"Dammit, Jane…" She looked away, wiped her eyes with the palm of one hand.

She was crying.

He couldn't even touch her, he thought to himself. Couldn't even reach out and put a hand on her shoulder, pull her into a hug for comfort. She had hugged that doctor so easily, her small body fitting inside his arms like it belonged, and he cursed himself, his damned stubborn pride, his pathological need to do things his own way. Truth be told, he had been that way before his wife and daughter had died. Red John had only served to take those qualities, which had previously been much-needed survival skills, and sharpen them into weapons that hurt people as easily as any blade. He killed her daily with his words, with his ways, and yet she kept coming back, kept trusting, kept hoping he would just be better the next time. She just kept hoping for better.

In that way, she was like his wife. He would likely be the death of her too.

He couldn't even tell her he was sorry.

"You're off the case," she said finally, before hitting the button that unlocked the doors and leaving the car for the solid, dependable brick walls of the HQ. He sat for several more minutes, then followed.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Van Pelt and Cho were already well into their interrogation of Sally Greenwald, Nursing Assistant at _Cedar Ridge Retirement Home_. Sally was the daughter of _San Francisco_ hippes, and was an enthusiastic supporter of the organic movement, sheep farming and Birkenstocks. She was also a believer in Dying with Dignity, a euthanasia support group for families battling terminal illnesses, but insisted she had never, or would never, act on her beliefs at _Cedar Ridge._ It was good Van Pelt was in the room. Cho would have had her for lunch.

Rigsby was standing beside her, watching the entire proceedings. He would glance occasionally at her, and it was making her crazy. Angry and crazy, although, truth be told, it wasn't his fault. Someone else had made her angry and crazy a long while ago. It just rubbed off on others from time to time.

"What?" she asked finally.

"Oh, just, the widows…" He looked at her now. "Did you talk to Danielle DeVuono about them?"

She turned to him slowly. "What about the widows?"

"Um, well, you should talk to Ms. DeVuono…"

"I'm going to kill him…" she growled, grabbed her phone and stormed out the door toward the bullpen.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Despite stomach cramps, chills and one massive headache, Patrick Jane managed to drive the little Citroen to _Rocklin_ on his own, and in fact, navigate the roads that led to the quiet treed cul-de-sac and the old ranch bungalow owned by Estelle Mountbatten and Theodora Getty. Once there, he sat in the car for a long moment, breathing deeply and wondering if he was doing the right thing. It was crazy, it was reckless. Lisbon would likely not talk to him for days, weeks if he was unlucky (or _ever_ if he was _very_ unlucky), but he could honestly see no other way for the widows. The 'right thing', in his opinion, was almost always subjective.

He had made her cry today.

And that made him very sad.

_He would be the death of her._

And so, he pulled himself out of his car, took one last deep breath, and strolled up to the door.

He knocked with a gentlemanly flourish.

They were home. Of course, they were home. They were expecting him.

"Oh Patrick," sang Estelle. "We knew you would come. We simply knew."

"Oh yes," echoed Theodora. "We simply knew. Come in, have a seat, dear. Have a seat."

He stepped inside the cozy little bungalow, adorned from top to tail in florals.

"Here," sang Estelle. "Sit here, on the couch."

"Yes, sit here."

He did.

And it came, like he knew it would. The invitation. The pledge. The sacrament.

"Now, Patrick, dear. Would you like some tea?"

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

With a heavy and conflicted heart, Teresa Lisbon made her way back to the bullpen and her office, which still smelled of wisteria. There was a book on her desk – _Hamlet,_ by William Shakespeare. It was well-worn, likely Jane's. There was also a note, propped up under the flowers in their Tylenol vase. That too was likely from Jane, but she was angry so she ignored it and logged onto her computer. There were many messages waiting for her.

The tests on Telly Szkuras had come back positive – there were indeed minute traces of arsenic in his system. The Forensics team was running yet another series of tests on the fence that encircled the home. The Holloway family was now suing the _Sunshine Organic Supply Company _as well as _Cedar Ridge Retirement Home._ The OEHHA was sending an investigator to the home in the morning, with orders for lockdown. From Hightower's office, twelve agents were now out with the flu. She rubbed her brow, a vague sense of unease stirring in the pit of her stomach.

Of course, she realized that it could have been the flu.

She rubbed her forehead. Danielle DeVuono had been upset. Not about the widows, per se, but about the fact that the gentlemen were routinely leaving the grounds without notice, a breach of safety protocols for such a 'vulnerable demographic.' She had repeatedly ordered the gate be locked, sealed, whatever it needed to render it unusable, but routinely the gentlemen had found a way to unlock it. It gave the Holloway's impending lawsuit just a little more tooth.

Her eyes flicked to the note under the wisteria.

She paused for only a heartbeat before ripping it open.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

It was a different brew this time, he could tell by the smell. A vaguely ginger scent wafted from the liquid as it poured from the spout into his porcelain cup. He lifted it up, breathed it in but did not drink.

They were watching him like hawks.

He lowered the cup.

"Is it only sadness that you look for?" he asked, meeting their eyes. "Or is it something else?"

"Mostly sadness, dear," said Estelle. "But sadness takes many forms."

"Yes," said Theodora. "Most of our gentlemen friends had conditions."

"Yes, conditions."

"Conditions that contributed to the sadness, dear."

"Yes. Contributed."

The widows nodded quietly.

"Did they know?" he asked.

"Of course they knew, dear. We're not murderers."

"Heavens no. Not murderers. Nasty business, murder."

"Yes, nasty."

Jane smiled. "Because Harold and Cranton seem to be just fine…"

They brightened. "Oh my yes," said Estelle. "Harold and Cranton are just fine."

"Just fine. But they had different tea than you, dear. They always have the usual."

"As opposed to…?"

"Why, the tea with the remedy, dear."

"The remedy?"

"Yes, the remedy. Our most special blend."

"And they aren't needing 'the remedy'?"

"Of course not, Patrick."

"Why not?"

"They aren't sad, dear. They aren't sad. There's still some vim and vigor in those old bones!"

"Oh my, Theodora. Such vim and vigor!"

"Dear Harold and Cranton," Theodora smiled to herself, shook her head fondly. "No, those rascals aren't needing any of our remedies…"

"Not yet," corrected Estelle.

"No, not yet."

"But they will. One day, they will."

"Oh yes, you see, one day they will ask."

"That's very interesting." Jane cocked his head, the smile never having left his face. " And how will they ask?"

Both women looked at him now, as if the answer should be perfectly clear.

"With their eyes, dear," said Estelle. "They ask with their eyes."

"Yes. With their eyes," echoed Theodora. She patted his hand. "Like you did, dear."

"Yes," said Estelle. She patted his other hand. "Like you did."

Jane sighed. _They were as good as he was. Maybe better._

_He had made her cry today._

Now, Estelle laid her hand on his sleeve. "You don't need to drink your tea, dear. Not if you don't want to."

"No, of course you don't, dear," said Theodora. "We could make you some lemonade."

"Oh yes," said Estelle. "Some nice, happy, tart, sunny lemonade. We have a small lemon tree outside, in the garden. Would you prefer lemonade, Patrick? You seem like a man who can enjoy a good lemonade."

Lemonade or tea. That was the question, Horatio. Had been the question for almost seven years now. Figuratively of course, but it was the same. Light or dark, cold or hot, lemonade or tea.

To be or not to be.

_He would be the death of her one day._

He looked up at them and smiled sadly. "Tea is perfect," and downed the cup in one sure go.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""

"Damn him," she snarled from the passenger seat of the SUV. "Damn him to hell."

Hands firmly gripped on the wheel, Kimball Cho applied more gas. They were already doing 75 mph down the I-80, bubble lights flashing and siren wailing. Fortunately, cars pulled out of their way as the big SUV approached.

"I'll kill him," she growled to herself, and glanced down at the note in her hand.

**Dear Lisbon, **

**Have gone to have tea with the widows. They live at 2012 Sunnyside Court. Do join us.**

**Jane**

**PS Please bring along a vial of dimercaptosuccinic acid, five tablets of charcoal, and an Emergency medical team with a stomach pump and poison kit. Thank you.**

She crumpled it in her palm.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

'_There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophies.'_

_The number one tragedy of all time. Madness and blood, revenge and death._

_"O, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!"_

_Light and dark, cold and hot. Lemonade or tea._

_To be or not to be._

_Happiness is a warm puppy. Shakespeare knew his psychology._

_Or perhaps that was Peanuts._

They had put on Bach,_ the Well-Tempered Clavier, Book One._ It was a record, old and popping and very very beautiful_. Damn, but they were good._

_He had made her cry._

"You are very sad today, Patrick," Estelle was saying.

"Yes, sadder than usual," Theodora was saying.

_He could never hold her like that. He was a ghost, a ghost locked in the pursuit of the man who had killed him. Like Hamlet, his thoughts were bloody. No, he could never hold her like that._

_Hamlet is killed by a sword dipped in poison._

_Life and death, two edges of the same poisoned sword._

_There are flowers everywhere, on the couch, on the chair, in the drapes._

_Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. Or was it Amsterdam? _

_Or was that Peanuts? The doctor is in. Five cents please._

"It's alright to be sad, dear," Estelle now as she poured yet another cup.

"Yes," Theodora now. "Terrible business, sadness."

"Yes," Estelle was saying. "Terrible business."

_She never gets flowers._

_He could never hold her. He would be the death of her._

The room was spinning now, an effect he had not been anticipating. For days, the cramps, chills, headache, even the vomiting – all classic symptoms of arsenic poisoning, but the neurological symptoms had simply not shown themselves. Confusion, disorientation, depression. He had been hoping that with his particular constitution, they simply might not. Physical pain he could take, but he had never liked anything messing with his mind.

Or maybe they had manifested themselves and he had been oblivious. It would explain much.

_It's not good to keep things to yourself. Mr. Holloway might still be alive if he told his friends how he was feeling._

"I need to…"

"What, Patrick dear? What do you need?"

"Yes, dear. We can help."

_Why can't you trust me with this?_

"I, ah…I need to… leave…" He had to fight for his words. It was a blur. Vocabulary, grammar, syntax, all major players in his tool kit, had fled, leaving him at the mercy of his body. His body and the widows.

"No, no, dear," said Theodora. "You can't go yet. You mustn't drive."

"No, no," echoed Estelle. "That would be dangerous. Just sit. It will all be fine in just a little while."

"Yes, in just a little while, it will all be fine."

"No," he said. The flowers in the room were looming. _Flowers in the couch_. "I have to talk… to my friend."

_Why can't you trust me?_

He pushed himself to his feet. _The flowers in the settee. _"I have to talk to…" Her. Her. That one. The one whose name he couldn't remember. "Her…"

"Oh well," sang Estelle. "If you really must leave…"

"Yes," echoed Theodora. "If you must…"

He took several steps, was at the threshold of the door_. _The pain, now_ that_ had been expected, predicted, but never truly imagined. He reached for the wall to keep him standing._ Flowers on the welcome mat._

_She never got flowers._

"But you will never find peace," sang Estelle. Her hands were on his shoulders. Like a grandmother. He'd never known his grandmothers. "Dear boy, it's alright to find peace. You are so very sad."

"So very sad," echoed Theodora. Her hands were on him too. "We can help you with that, dear."

"Yes, we can help."

_He always brought his wife flowers._

He tried to find his phone. He could barely feel his fingers. The room was spinning. The flowers were looming. Lisbon? Was that her name?

Pain stabbed like a thousand knives in his belly and he doubled up against the wall trying to catch his breath. The level of it was honestly unexpected, this much pain. Perhaps he hadn't done enough research. He had been arrogant. That wasn't surprising, all things considered.

They were wringing their hands as they hovered beside him.

"We're so terribly sorry for this, dear. It shouldn't hurt so much."

"No, it shouldn't hurt. But then again, Theodora, we've never given so much."

"Well, yes, Estelle. You are right. Mostly just a drop or two of the remedy every time. They slip away quietly in their sleep."

"But Patrick, dear, we didn't know how long we would have you, now did we?"

"Yes, dear. We had to give you more."

It sounded like he was underwater, they way their voices distorted and echoed in his head. He wanted to lay down, to rest, to sleep, but his legs wouldn't allow it. _Damn his legs, anyway. Why wouldn't they cooperate?_

_O, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth_

"Would you like to lay down, Patrick?" someone asked. It may have been Estelle. He couldn't be certain. She had to have been reading his mind, he knew it. _Damn them old widows and psychics._

"Come along, dear," said someone else, and he felt their hands on him again, guiding him away from the door. He thought he was walking, but he couldn't be sure. Everything was distorted, growing, shrinking, warping in front of his eyes.

And suddenly, there was a bed and he was being lowered down. His world lurched as he sank onto it, and his stomach tightened, protesting the movement. _Oh damn,_ he thought to himself, _a floral bedspread._ If he never saw another flower, it would be too soon.

_She never got flowers. Now he knew why._

"Lie down, dear," said a voice and thin white hands pressed on him.

"Yes, lie down. Everything will feel much better once you lie down."

And he realized that it was true, so he obeyed, allowing the bony hands to turn and press him onto the bedspread. It was surreal, and he felt himself watching the proceedings as if from above. _Damn_, he thought again. Where was she? He had left her the note. Hadn't he? _And damn the arsenic._ It was messing with his mind.

He realized he had been damning a lot of things.

Himself, included.

_There are more things in heaven and earth…_

No, he would never see them in heaven.

"What did she look like, your wife?"

The power of suggestion was almost a force of nature. This he understood. For immediately, his wife's face appeared in his mind, with her gentle quirky smile, laughing eyes, dark hair cascading across her shoulders.

"And your daughter, dear little Charlotte. She's waiting for you, Patrick."

Charlotte. Charlie, he would call her when they would wrestle. Daddy's little girl. He loved her so very much.

_There are more things in heaven and earth…_

They were helping him, doing him a favor. He knew it. He knew.

It was a double-edged sword, this place between the maddening elusive promises of darkness and the grabbing, tenacious claws of life. He should just let it all go.

He would never see them in heaven.

The last thing he did see was the face of Teresa Lisbon, her great green eyes, small pouting mouth, mass of dark hair reaching down for him and then nothing.

_End of Chapter 8_


	9. Chapter 9

_**Arsenic and Red Lace**_

_Chapter 8_

"You're joking."

Madeleine Hightower looked up at her from her desk, not a trace of humour in those great dark eyes.

"I am many things right now, Agent Lisbon, but 'joking' is not one of them. Between Jane's stunt and your lack of protocol and procedure, there is no way the DoJ can take this case to court."

Teresa Lisbon folded her arms across her chest. "So they're gonna walk."

"Yes, Agent Lisbon. They're going to walk."

"But we caught them in the act. It took the EMS team 10 minutes to revive him! They have a veritable pharmacy in their greenhouse! Who knows how many men they've poisoned over the years?"

"That is the dilemma when we don't follow the book, isn't it?"

"But the greenhouse—"

"Is Fruit of the Poisoned Tree, Agent. The search was illegal therefore all evidence gathered in that search is illegal and therefore inadmissible. You should have gotten a warrant."

"There wasn't any time."

"And now there isn't any case."

Lisbon sighed and sat back, not quite ready to be defeated just yet.

"There was probable cause," she grumbled.

"Really?" Hightower glanced at her file. "An invitation to tea from a consultant, whom you admitted to having kicked off the case only hours previous."

"He was suffering from arsenic poisoning."

"Not according to your Dr. Witherspoon's analysis."

Lisbon frowned. That had been unexpected indeed. No arsenic traces in the chunk of hair she'd unceremoniously ripped from Jane's head.

"Maybe there wasn't enough in his system. Maybe it needed more time…" It sounded lame. She could tell the moment it rolled off her tongue. And not for the first time, did she find herself cursing the wiles of Patrick Jane.

"Didn't sound like probable cause to the DA and doesn't sound like probable cause to me." Hightower studied the file. "And you, Agent Lisbon. Did you announce yourself as CBI before you kicked down those little old ladies' door?"

"Little old ladies? They poisoned him. He was practically blue!"

"Did you?"

She sank back into her chair, scowling. "I don't remember…"

"Odd. Neither does your Agent Cho."

Lisbon ground her molars, but said nothing.

"Now this, this is interesting." Hightower flipped the page. "The Forensics report confirms a higher than normal arsenic reading in that iron fence…"

"Yes, ma'am," Lisbon mumbled.

"In fact, the levels are off the charts. Arsenic, mercury, cyanide and lead in copious amounts. There was a gate leading to the house on Sunnyside Court, wasn't there?"

"Apparently so, ma'am."

"A gate that was often used by gentlemen heading over to the Sunnyside residence for tea?"

"Yes, ma'am. Apparently so."

"Even Eugene Holloway."

"Even Eugene Holloway, ma'am."

"The OEHHA has commissioned the fence be utterly removed and a new heavy-metal-free one installed. They are pursuing charges on the manufacturer, a company in New Mexico. And on our recommendation, this new one will _not _have a gate leading to the Sunnyside residence or anywhere else off the property. …"

"Yes ma'am." Lisbon sighed.

Hightower closed the folder, clasped her hands across it as she leaned over her desk. "So, apparently this is not a homicide."

"No, ma'am."

"It might have _been _a homicide, Agent Lisbon. It might have been, in fact, _many_ homicides, but right now, according to the law which neither you nor Mr. Jane upheld, it is not a homicide. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The woman studied her for a long moment.

"How is he, anyway?"

She shrugged. "Oh, he's gonna be fine. They have him in 'chelation therapy,' whatever that is. Something to get the arsenic out of his system. He'll probably be off for a few more days."

"He was pretty sick, wasn't he?"

She sighed, remembering. "Yeah, he was pretty sick."

"Well," she allowed a hint of a smile to cross her stern face. "From what I know of Mr. Jane, he usually has his reasons for doing what he did."

"Oh, he always has his reasons, ma'am."

"And they're probably good ones."

"They're gonna have to be."

Hightower shook her head, leaned back in her chair.

"When he's back, I want him in my office immediately. As soon as one sorry butt-ugly brown shoe crosses security, he's here. You got that, Agent Lisbon?"

Lisbon suppressed a grin. "Yes, ma'am," she said, with perhaps a bit more enthusiasm than she should. "Is that all?"

"Yes, Agent Lisbon. Have a lovely day."

And Teresa Lisbon left the heavy, sunny office for the activity of the bullpen.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Her agents glanced up, then quickly back down as she reentered the bullpen and strode swiftly to her office. They knew better than to ask. The fact that she was back told them all they needed to know.

She lowered herself behind her desk, paused to sweep her eyes across the chaos there. Files, papers, disks and pens, Jane's copy of _Hamlet _now hers, her computer happily glowing with several messages, and flowers. One bouquet of yellow and pink carnations from Craig Witherspoon and two wilting wisteria, forgotten and unwatered in a Tylenol bottle vase.

She shook her head.

He had almost died.

He had played her to protect two crazy old ladies and he had almost died. In a way, he had tried to tell her. The 'issues', the moral, ethical, personal issues. Death and dying, suicide and euthanasia, sadness and grief, roads he himself lived on, crossroads he himself faced every day. The widows had found a path. Jane was still searching for his.

Damn him for taking her there.

There was noise in the bullpen and she glanced up.

_Damn him to hell. _

Patrick Jane was in the building.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""

"Hey!" cried Grace Van Pelt, as she sprang from her desk to give the consultant a hug. "Aren't you supposed to be in the hospital?"

"Meh," he grinned. He couldn't hug back. His hands were full of blue and red gift bags. "There ain't no joint big enough to hold dis lug."

Both Rigsby and Cho joined them. Rigsby had hands on hips, nodding and grinning. "So, 'Chelation Therapy,' huh? Sounds ominous."

"Oh, yes, well,_"_ said Jane. "Interesting. Lots of needles, blood work, chemicals. Not to mention doctors. I think I prefer the arsenic."

"Harold says hi. He misses your chess moves. Cho and I aren't nearly as good."

Jane brightened. "You and Cho?"

"Yep," said Rigsby. "Yesterday and today. They're sharks, man. Sharks."

"Old school," said Cho. "But sharks."

"Well," said Jane. "That makes me very happy. Thank you."

He handed Rigsby a bag.

The big man beamed, dug into the tissue, and pulled out a tin. He beamed some more.

"One pound of gourmet organic honey and sea-salted peanuts! Awesome! Thanks, man!"

He tore open the plastic lid, the foil liner, dumped a handful into his palm and tossed them back into his mouth. He closed his eyes in bliss.

"Me next. My turn." Grace clapped her hands together in anticipation. With a little bow, Jane held another gift bag. She snatched it from his hands, pulled a white and black plush dog from the tissue.

"Happiness is a warm puppy," he said sweetly.

"Snoopy!" she exclaimed. "I love Snoopy!" She hugged the stuffed toy to her chest. "He's going to live on my desk. Thanks, Jane. I love him." And she kissed Jane on the cheek, a gesture he happily accepted, before bouncing off to place her new treasure on her desk, beside the computer.

Cho eyed him. "I'm not going to kiss you."

"Wait 'til you open your gift bag, sunshine. You might just change your mind." And he held out the third.

Cho eyed it. Jane waggled the bag, waggled his brows. Cho snatched it up.

It was a book.

'_Smoke and Mirrors – Card Tricks and Carnival Stunts Explained,'_ by Edward R. Norris.

Cho grinned. "Cool," and he ambled over to his desk, already flipping to the first page.

One bag left, and it was a biggie. In fact, it seemed to almost take two hands for him to lift it, and the tissue popped out and over the top like a waterfall. With bag in hand, he ambled toward the door to Lisbon's office.

She made a point not to look at him.

"Knock knock," he said.

"Go away."

"Your supposed to say 'who's there."

"I'm not ten, Jane. I don't do 'Knock Knock' jokes."

"Ah."

And he stood for a moment in the doorway, holding the gift bag, looking at the ceiling, waiting. Finally, Lisbon looked up.

"Aren't you supposed to be in the hospital?"

"None of the doctors were as likable as Craig."

"Go home. I don't want to talk to you today."

"I have a present for you."

"I don't care."

He thought for a moment. "Well, it's rather heavy. May I come in and put it down, just give my arms a little rest. Chelation therapy takes a lot out of a guy."

"Damn you, Jane!" She slammed her hands on her desk and rose to her feet, and he backpedaled, looking as if he might run away. She beat him to the door however, shoved him and his over-sized gift bag into the office and slammed the glass behind him.

"Sit," she snarled.

He sat.

She leaned into him, a finger just inches from his face.

"How dare you? How dare you do that to me, string me along like that just to protect some widows you just met? That's low, Jane, even for you. That's low and cruel and, and… just low."

"I left you a note."

"What if I didn't read it?"

"Why wouldn't you read my note?"

"Because I was angry, Jane. I was very, very angry with you."

"I knew you would read it."

"How could you know that? How could you possibly know that?"

"I know that I knew. I knew you would come. There wasn't any danger."

"Don't you _ever_ play me like that again, you got that?" It wasn't a question.

"I'm sorry," he said, blue eyes earnest.

"No, you're not. You'll do it again, whenever it suits you, but you know what? It hurts Jane. It hurts."

He looked down, cradled the bag in his arms.

She leaned on her desk._ Dammit _how he could diffuse her with a look.

"I know what you were doing, even why you did it. You wanted to make sure the sisters couldn't be prosecuted because you like them, and you understand them and they understand you and all that crap. I get your issues now, those ones that you talked to Craig about, euthanasia and suicide and death and dying. I get it. I do."

"They were helping," he said quietly.

"And what if, just once, they were wrong?"

"They weren't."

"But if they were?"

He sat very still, clutching the gift bag as if it were a life preserver. Finally, he sighed.

"Well then, that would be bad."

"Yes, Jane. That would be bad. That would be more than bad. That would be murder." She folded her arms across her chest, waited for her words to sink in before continuing. "You crossed a line, Jane. Suicide, assisted or not, is still illegal in California."

"It shouldn't be."

"Can you tell me that you would be sitting here in my office if it weren't?"

There was no response to that.

He sat for a few moments longer before rising to his feet. He placed the huge gift bag on her desk, shook out his arms and trudged toward the door, pausing for a moment longer. He didn't look at her.

"No one noticed Eugene Holloway. Not how sad he was, not how long it took for him to die, nothing. The staff, his friends, no one."

_Damn his deep, deep waters._

He shrugged, threw her a furtive glance. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you noticed."

She sighed, not ready to give in just yet. "Go home. You still have a few days sick leave and you look like hell."

Their eyes met for a moment. His wary and proud, hers good and fierce.

He closed the door behind him.

She felt sick to her stomach.

_Damn him to hell,_ she thought. Him and his deep waters and transport trucks and Peanuts and Shakespeare. He would be the death of her.

And she was so very, very, _very _glad he was alive.

And with that thought, the hint of a smirk that usually tugged into her cheek reappeared, so she turned to the big blue bag, stared at it for a long moment before tearing the white tissue out the top and tossing it on the floor. She was immediately assaulted by the most amazing smell.

Flowers. The biggest bouquet she had ever seen, a hundred blooms in wild colours and shapes and sizes, in a vase of finest crystal. Carefully, she lifted it out of the bag and set it on her desk. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen and made Craig Witherspoon's bouquet look like a high school corsage. _Damn him to hell._

She was so very glad he was alive.

And she smiled like she had never smiled before.

Suddenly, she frowned, brought her hands up to her mouth and rushed from the office to the ladies' room. There, she 'woofed up her cookies' as the stomach flu claimed it's thirteenth agent.

And from outside her office, Patrick Jane watched and smiled too, before quietly turning and leaving the bullpen.

""""""""""""""""""""""

_All that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity. (Hamlet 1.2)_

_"Look, you can't do things like that! Now, I don't know how I can explain this to you. But, it's not only against the law, its wrong!"  
"Oh, piffle!" (Arsenic and Old Lace)  
_

The doorbell rang, and Estelle Mountbatten shuffled over to see.

"Who is it, Estelle?" called Theodora. "Who ever could it be?"

"Who ever indeed?"

She swung the door open to reveal Patrick Jane, standing on the step, a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

"Oh my dear! Theodora, Theodora, it's Patrick!"

"Patrick?" Theodora rustled over. "Oh Patrick dear! Please come in! We've missed you terribly."

"Yes, terribly. Do come in."

And Jane did, stepping past the sisters and pressing the flowers into their hands. They hugged him, they kissed him, they fussed over him like hens.

"The police had been ever so dreadful, dear."

"Dreadful business, police."

"Yes, dreadful."

"They accused us of killing those poor men!"

"Terrible business, murder."

"But it's that fence, isn't it, dear?"

"Yes, that beautiful, poisonous fence."

"Isn't it odd how so many lovely, lovely things can turn out to be so dangerous?"

"Oh, yes, terribly odd."

They were slowly making their way over to the couch.

"They're going to rip it out, you know. Rip it right out."

"And there will be no gate for the gentlemen to visit."

"Whoever will visit us, Estelle? Who ever will visit?"

"Oh Patrick will visit, won't you dear?"

"Oh, do say you'll visit, Patrick? We would miss you terribly."

He smiled at them. "I would like nothing better."

"Oh that's wonderful, Patrick. Thank you."

"Yes, wonderful. Thank you."

"Now, dear," said Estelle. "Do you have time for tea?"

"Yes, dear," said Theodora. "Please say you'll stay for tea?"

"I'd love to," said Jane, smiling like the sun.

"Now, which blend would you like? We have camomille and ginger…"

"Mint and lavender…"

"Wild lemon…"

"Actually…" He shoved a hand into his pocket, pulled out a tea bag. It swung on a little string. "I brought my own."

They looked crestfallen.

He smiled some more. "However, may I borrow three tea cups? The china ones with the red roses. I'd like to show you a little game I know…"

In the other hand, he held up a peanut.

They brightened.

And together, the trio sat down to tea.

_The End_


End file.
